


Dreams are the Voice of the Gods

by twowritehands



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Bottom!Esca, Canon-era AU, M/M, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, tuck verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus discovers that his new slave is not what he seems, and is hiding something very special. Enamored by the miracle and beauty of Esca’s kind, Marcus aids in keeping the secret. But hatchlings are difficult to hide for long… ~~banner for story inside~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We made a banner for this one :)

 [][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Discomfort clouded the first several weeks of Marcus’ new life in the secluded country. His uncle’s home was clean and well-maintained, but a tight knot of pain and scar tissue in his leg poisoned every room. Nights in this place were utterly peaceful and without danger, but the headaches from being lethargic for days on end, and the tension in his muscles from disuse, brought discordant nightmares to plague him at night, dreams in which he replayed, again and again, how he had been once glorious and was now useless.

The worst was how Marcus did not know his own body anymore, could not trust his own legs to hold him when he stood, and it sapped away his will to live. He stared at walls and hated what had happened. He stared out windows and saw nothing of consequence or interest. He closed his eyes and saw his honor forever out of reach.

Sometimes he dreamed of his men needing him, of those lost soldiers he couldn’t save, of the British friend he had killed in battle, of his father being a coward. He could not rest at ease. He could not stop the disquiet of his soul. There was nowhere to turn.

He slept most of the time, or stayed in bed staring into the past, or what might have been.

When he felt up to being carried like a pathetic invalid from the bed to a chair, Marcus attempted to be distracted by tile games with his uncle. These were challenging enough, but the conversation felt too light-hearted, and Uncle refused to play in silence.

Being a soldier, having survived rigorous training, having marched for miles, and fought in merciless war, Marcus thought he had known pain and exhaustion.

During training, for longer than he had ever lived in the solace of his mother’s love, he had lived as one of hundreds, slept on a cold, wooden cot, ate gruel, exercised under the hot sun until his muscles burned, and then he was worked even more, and he kept working, and he took hit after hit from metal and fist and foot and gave it all back, bloodied and broken but making brothers with men who were as determined as he.

And when training was over, Marcus had marched across whole countries, walking until his feet bled, until his body ached, until his eyes weighed more than his metal, until he was sleeping even as he was marching in formation. He had learned to resign to discomfort, to forgo daydreaming until there was time for it, to expect nothing out of a day but gruel and blisters and sweat.

Then Marcus had learned the chaos of rage, fear and duty, had witnessed strong men crying out like children. In battle, he had always moved just that much faster, hit just that much harder and thus saved himself while good men around him fell hard and went still. There, he had endured powerful blows to his body that were not intended to make him stronger, like in training, but were intended to make him breathe his last… yet he had always been just that much stronger, just that much swifter.

Until that chariot.

After living such a life for so long, Marcus had started to think he was invincible--or, at least, that he would always be the same, which was almost the same thing as invincibility. And more than that, he had believed death meant he would stop breathing.

How naive.

He had known _nothing_ of the different kinds of death. He’d never considered the death of a dream, how breathing continued even after the will for it ceased.

Everything in Marcus’ life, from the wooden cot of a boy far from home, to the bloodied blade of a centurion panting for breath, had been for a purpose, a dream: to restore honor to the name of Aquila, to erase his father’s shame… but now that was as dead and as out of reach as his father’s hand.

Now he had a soft bed. He ate delicious food. He did not work--nor even stand, for that matter. There was no metal. There was no danger. There were no orders to give. There was nothing but his uncle, slaves, flowers, rain and silence.

..

..

..

The first break of light into Marcus’ melancholy came at the Saturnalia games. He appreciated being out of the house, but the trip was so much harder than he thought it would be. He was sweaty and dizzy and just wanted to lay down by the time he made it to his seat in the arena stands. The muscles in his leg jittered and trembled uncontrollably while sharp stabs of pain shot through it like a pulse.

How pathetic. Who would _willingly_ live this way?

It was as he sat here, too miserable to enjoy the lively atmosphere of the games, that something finally helped Marcus feel anything other than pain in his leg, anything other than the bitterness.

First, there was a sweet scent on the air, a whiff of alluring perfume that turned his head. Then, he spotted the one who wore it and his breath reversed, slipped backwards into his lungs while his heart retreated over the beats already beaten.

There, in the row before Marcus--only a couple of seats over, practically in reach--sat an _abdo_!

The young tuck was as pale and unblemished as a white rose, shrouded in a toga of silk, a sash stitched in gold. His soft blonde hair was long enough to dance in the breeze and his excited laugh a delightful sound like heavy bells tolling above the ruckus of the stadium. His fairness, beauty, and wealth aside, Marcus knew him as a tuck because when he twisted _just so_ to arrange his clothes before taking his seat on a satin cushion, Marcus caught a glimpse, through the draping of his toga, the elegant curves of the tuck’s chest.

The sight of breasts on a young man came as a surprise to Marcus’ senses like a kick in the back of his knee. This perfect young tuck had recently given birth to a child! How extraordinary! Marcus had never seen a tuck that had carried a child before… the soldier watched eagerly, but the tuck and his people settled into their seats and there was no babe among them; it must be at home, then, with a nurse. No matter. A milking tuck alone was just as exciting a sight.

Roman law promoted all tuck’s into an exalted rank in society no matter the position of his family. And Marcus, being the son of a poor farming soldier--and an Aquila besides--had never been, nor ever would be, good enough to win the favor of such a high person. He had never even spoken to an _abdo_.

This marked the first time Marcus ever saw one with breasts… and also perhaps the _last_ time, for there were very few that would travel so far from the capital, especially with children so young.

Dejection filled Marcus like a kettle left in the rain.

The games began, and the injured centurion in the crowd paid little attention to the arena, lost in musing about the elusive, rare third gender. Where did this young man come from? Did he miss the family he left behind when he moved to the capital for the best education, the best marriage, and babies?

Dogs barked somewhere in the cages--promising a very exciting fight later--but Marcus did not hear it. He watched the row in front of him, the way the _abdo_ held the heavy arm of his wealthy companion, draping on the man and leaning into him in the most intimate of ways, cheering with the crowd. That had to be his husband--a senator, or other such person of wealth and authority. No one unimportant could marry a tuck.

Longing was unrecognizable at first, but Marcus felt the tremor in his fingers and toes, a pull in the center of his chest.

He wondered if this tuck was truly happy with his husband, or if he wished he had been allowed to marry someone else. Perhaps there was someone he adored but had been ripped from never to see again. Surely that was a common enough tragedy; due to the differences in the two bloodlines of man, tucks were not permitted to marry just _anyone_. The law forced everyone to choose in favor of healthier children.

In that way it did not matter whether or not Marcus was crippled, or whether or not he ever won a fortune in his career, because he still couldn’t get to bed one of these rare men; his bloodline was not compatible. He and his forefathers were born from a woman’s placenta, and to mix his blood with a tuck’s would be to ensure that neither bloodline continued.

In short, that tuck before him was as out of reach as ever, and he always would be.

An involuntary movement in Marcus’ thigh as he quickly turned away from what he could never have caused the pain in his leg to double, spreading like fire through his body. He gritted his teeth and rode it out, cursing that he could scarcely adjust the limb without his vision blurring.

He huffed. Sitting there, longing for a tuck to know as his and his alone? He was nothing but a useless, crippled, fool.

Marcus brooded until Uncle scoffed loudly and shook his white head. “A slave! It is never a fair fight!”

Blinking up from his wound, Marcus focused for the first time on the arena beyond the beautiful young tuck sitting there in his line of sight, and again, something drew his attention from the depths of his misery. This time, though, it was quite different than before.

Below, a slave wearing nothing but a filthy tunic (little more than a rag with holes cut in for his head and arms, a hem that barely covered his knees but not the tribal markings of a warrior that spread down one arm) faced his death proudly, getting hit but standing up again and again… and as Marcus watched it, inspiration drained the grey from his life like a storm drained an overcast sky and turned it into a blue masterpiece again.

 _This_ was the glory of Rome as his father had proudly explained it to him. _This_ was why he, Marcus, had always known he would be a centurion. _This_ was what made him proud to be a man, what he wanted to remind the world: Aquilas had indomitable spirit and valor-- _just like_ _this_.

In that moment, Marcus knew he would walk again.

Saving the slave made all the sense in the world; fearlessness and dignity should be rewarded, should be preserved in this world where so much could be snatched away in a moment. It didn’t matter that Marcus was preserving those things in a slave, because seeing them at all had helped him find them in himself again.

“LIFE!” he roared.

In front of Marcus, the young _abdo_ sprang to his feet, agitated with empathy, the first to agree, “Yes, life!”

With such a superior citizen’s opinion in life’s favor, the tide turned instantly. The stadium shouted for the slave to live, and the gladiator obliged his audience with an incline of his head, a flourish of his sword.

“Well, that was interesting,” Uncle mused as Marcus collapsed back onto his seat, dizzy from the burning in his leg. The energy of a moment had left him utterly exhausted, but his heart was pounding, stronger than ever, and for the first time since his last battle, the life in him did not seem to be a plague to him.

 _Get up_ , he was thinking. _It will not be easy. But pick yourself up again and keep going. Be the good of Aquila that you want to prove to the world._

The _abdo_ before him turned and smiled kindly, but Marcus barely had the strength to appreciate the attention, though his heart made a gallant attempt to jump out of his throat.

“Let’s get you home, Marcus.” His uncle said distantly, “You do not look well.”

..

..

..

By the time Marcus was dragged home, the listless clouds had returned tenfold. Witnessing that slave’s dignity might have reminded Marcus to strive for some of his own, but what was the point? He would someday stand again, and walk… but would he ever run fast enough? If he could not even _ride_ then what could he possibly do with his life?

Discouraged by these unanswerable questions, Marcus thought no more of the life he saved—that was, until, that life was there in his room, fierce and proud and called Esca. The Briton was cut, bruised and swollen from his beating, but cleaned up, fully dressed.

“I have no need of a body slave,” Marcus grumbled, thinking that an audience to his pathetic misery was the last thing in the world he was willing to tolerate. But his attempt to decline Esca’s services was answered with insistence from Uncle that he stop being pigheaded and accept help when he needed it.

A sharp, dark face, cleaned but bruised and scratchy with new beard, looked at Marcus, and the Roman couldn’t decipher Esca’s expression, but it wasn’t gratitude for being saved, that much he knew.

Just as soon as they were alone together, Marcus again felt something other than his pain—fear for his life and a rush of adrenaline so dearly missed—because Esca abruptly pulled out a concealed dagger, advancing on him. In a moment, Marcus forgot his leg would fail him, he forgot his life was no longer the war he was accustomed to… In one, brief, concentrated spark, Marcus was _alive_ again.

But with Esca’s solemn resignation to serve him in a life debt, the dagger clattered to the floor, and at the sound of it, Marcus’ life dropped back into the cold, misty listlessness of grief.

..

..

..

Esca mostly stayed quiet and out of the way. He did not bow his head or refrain from making eye contact, like slaves were expected to do, so how he ended up in the arena wasn’t a mystery. If spoken to directly, he answered clearly and in a learned Latin, a good accent. He seemed to be clever and without shame in expressing his opinion, though he did so respectively.

“It’s not wise to go out now, it’s about to rain,” he’d say, or “it seems to be a pointless game. Why are there no wages made?”

His responses tended to amuse Marcus a little, but only in that they made it clear that Esca’s pride was unbendable. It pleased Marcus that he had been able to save such a spirit from an unjust death.

Esca wasn’t too defiant nor disruptive, never spoke until spoken to, never argued, and did what he was told as far as tending to Marcus’ leg, and so within a matter of days, he faded into the household, became something like a younger Stephanos, blending seamlessly into the edges of Marcus’ life until all that the broken warrior had left, once again, were the questions about what he was supposed to do now, and the pain in his leg that he started to fear would never go away.

..

..

..

Marcus woke from his second surgery with a horrifically dry mouth, but he knew right away that he would be okay. It was inexplicable, and he would never breathe a word of it to anyone, but he felt that the badness in the wound was gone. The pain he now felt—while considerable—was different than before; cleaner.

But just because he began to heal in the flesh did not mean he began to do so in his heart. He saw the rest of his life as nothing but the same: quiet days of easiness, of being hidden away from the world in comfort.

He became outraged with his gods.

Why would Mithras take so much from him? Why did good men who only ever sought to please and bring honor to their family have to be punished?

Despite the calm company of Esca, who had a knack for knowing when Marcus might want him around and when he didn’t, the clouds of Marcus’ life darkened each day, from the bleak grey of shock and pain and on into the black sorrow of hopelessness.

And then, one day, another glimpse of light peeked in at him through the darkness, and again inspiration pulled him from his despair.

And, again, it was Esca’s doing.

A mere week from the reopening of his flesh, Marcus was up on his own two feet with nothing but a stick to aid him. His leg was already so much better than before, a kind of pain that Marcus could not help but think of as _good_ pain.  _This_ discomfort was not unfamiliar to him; it was the surmountable kind, the kind that he took as a challenge that would be won now as it always had been before.

He had just woken from a dream, in which he had been sitting comfortably on a horse on a long journey toward some place pleasant, as if riding home. It felt like a dare from the gods. If he hoped to travel again, then by gods he would have to get his leg working again before he would ever experience that wonderful feeling of returning someplace familiar.

Even having the battle of his leg half-won was not enough to lift Marcus’ spirits. He had been discharged. Cast off. Left behind.

What was he doing if not restoring his family’s name? What was he doing if he was not a part of Rome’s progress, Rome’s glorious future? What was he doing if it literally made no difference anywhere, to anything, or anyone if he chose to sleep until noon?

Soon his leg would be strong again, and he would find something to do with his life. Something good. Something useful.

Perhaps he would farm. No, no, too dull.

Travel, as in the dream. But to what end?

Marcus wanted to be a part of Rome, but _not_ politics or teaching; both were noble pursuits and fundamental to the future of Rome, but they had no appeal to Marcus because he wanted to dig in and do the hard, back-breaking, blood-and-sweat work; fat, lazy, over-indulgent men could make the plans and tutor the minds that made the plans, Marcus would bring those plans to realization.

He could learn masonry and build... or was thirty five too old to apprentice for such a career? And maybe his leg would hinder that work, too….

Thinking these things, Marcus stood in the doorway for fresh air, looking outside, enjoying how cool the air felt on his backside where he’d lain in bed for days just like when the injury had first happened, sweating and aching from no movement, with only herbs to numb the pain. The air and the circulation was the most pleasure Marcus had felt in days and days.

It was while watching the outdoors (wistfully imagining he could be out there, walking strong and even running) that he saw a figure—Esca—slipping into the stables.

Peculiar; the slave carried a bundle close and moved fast, not wishing to be seen.

Curiosity drew Marcus’s thoughts away from the already well-beaten paths of his future, and he watched intently. Esca went inside with the horses for a while, and then he came back out, without the bundle and looking all the more tense for it.

Three separate times the Briton stopped and turned back toward the stables, but paused—so still he might be wary of springing a trap, and so taut he might be a bow string—and three times he did not take a step back from where he came, but forced himself onward.

This puzzle proved a convenient distraction from Marcus’ unhappiness, so he was sure to watch the slave closely after that.

Whatever Esca was up to, clearly it was something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, but Marcus did not wish to inform his uncle. That would only lead to a punishment. Uncle might even sell the problem to someone else. Marcus had never wanted a body slave and had yet to warm to the idea of one, but there was no denying that any other owner was likely to make it a point to take Esca’s honor and dignity from him, both of which had come to mean too much to Marcus, in a strange and distant way, for him to risk it.

So he only watched.

Esca did every duty laid out for him—helping in the kitchen, washing the linen, fetching things, helping Marcus with his sandals, and tending to Marcus’ bandages with gentle hands (once or twice lying to Stephanos and dumping out the herbs because Marcus preferred to suffer his pain with a clear head)—but the slave disappeared swiftly the moment he was idle.

Most slaves stood in the corner and waited to be needed, but Marcus had, from the beginning, insisted that Esca not do so, to instead go be of use elsewhere until sought out, so he was not missed by the other busy slaves because, if they needed him but did not see him around, they simply assumed that he was busy at some task out of sight.

Only Marcus realized that Esca visited the horses more often than he should—even leaving his pallet in the floor of Marcus’ room to slip out there in the middle of the night when he believed Marcus to be asleep.

On one such night, just as soon as his leg was up for the journey down the twisting walkway from the house to the stables, Marcus followed the sneaky slave as swiftly as he could hobble.


	2. Two

Whatever Esca was up to, Marcus planned to put an end to it—allowing it to go on so that someone else or Uncle might notice wouldn’t do. Also, he wanted to explain to Esca this queer urge he had to protect that warrior spirit coiled in his small stature. It was an odd thing to admit to someone, most especially a slave, but Marcus would admit it so that Esca might be persuaded to never do something like this again. Whatever it was.

The creak of a door hinge gave away Marcus’ entrance into the hay-filled, horsey closeness of the stables.

He heard the sharp intake of breath and saw the glint of moonlight on the dagger. For the second time since meeting Esca, Marcus’ fighting instincts roared to life in his veins, and he felt like his old self.

“ _Domine_ ,” Esca’s voice was startled but soft and the light on the blade was gone, “did I wake you as I left?”

“I was never asleep,” Marcus answered, leaning his stick on a wall and fiddling in the dark to light a lamp. “What are you doing?”

“Seeing to Old Emperor,” Esca said instantly, naming the horse whose stall he stood in, still half concealed in shadow despite the glow of the lamp. “He has an abscess that needs to be treated every hour.”

It was a good excuse, except it didn’t fit with his odd behavior. And there was no salty cloth being applied to the horses’ gums. “What are you really doing? What are you hiding in here?”

There was a pause; it was longer than it should be. Esca’s voice and breath were light and short enough to make Marcus imagine his heart was racing, “Domine?”

“I saw you several days ago, right after my surgery. I watched from the door of my room as you hid something in here. You return to it often. What is it?”

Esca took a step to the right, doubtless an involuntary movement to conceal something behind him. Marcus made a noise in his throat, waved a hand, “Aside, let me see it.”

“Domine,” Esca said it like a plea as he bowed his head but did not move.

“Is it money?” Marcus asked, having long thought this the most reasonable answer. If it wasn’t broken yet, then the Briton’s pride wouldn’t keep him in slavery for long, and perhaps it was because of the strength of that pride that Marcus was not angered by the idea of theft. “Money and more weapons, perhaps, to aid you in an escape?”

Marcus took up his stick in one hand and carried the lamp in the other. His steps were a little uneasy through the muck and straw on the stable floor, but he was so distracted by the mystery he hardly felt the pain. He entered the stable and with a heave against the old horse’s flank, got Old Emperor to move out of his way. Esca remained where he was, tensing up and stepping back closer to whatever he hid.

“Away,” Marcus ordered.

“No,” Esca said, as simply as that. Behind him a plank in the wall had been removed to reveal an alcove.

Irked to be so disobeyed, Marcus paused and huffed, “I’m crippled, but I’ll go beyond you for it. Will you kill me with your father’s dagger if I attempt it?”

“I—“ Esca began fiercely, but then he stopped—rigid like he’d been that first odd day—and then he sagged under an unseen weight. His eyes held such weariness that Marcus feared the spirit he so enjoyed in the slave was dying. Esca’s voice was thin in desperation, “Domine, I will not kill you. But I ask you to leave it be. Dismiss it from your thoughts!”

Laughing, Marcus asked, “What is this? Are you afraid of punishment? Apart from this suspicious behavior, you’re a good slave, Esca, and I admire you. For that, I will not be as harsh on you as other masters. In fact, I may not even punish you, because I think I understand what’s happening.”

It was an odd sensation, but Marcus felt calm at the idea of letting his uncle’s slave take what he had stashed away and flee this very night. He would even help to buy him time to get as far away as possible before a hunt was made…

In Esca was a fire of honor as bright as what burned in Marcus and at least one such flame should be free of shackles; Esca’s chains were mere law (unlike Marcus’ lame leg) and so could be lifted. Marcus would lift them tonight, if only Esca would trust him enough to let him help.

The stables were quiet except for the rustle of horse and nighttime sounds, and neither of the humans moved. Esca was still tense just out of reach of Marcus’ long arms.

When he finally spoke, it sounded just as desperate as before, “You are a good man, domine, and I ask you to give me your word that—once I show you—you will return to your bed and be blind to what I have here from this day on. I can promise that I do nothing dishonest and that I will continue to serve you as faithfully as I have since you saved me. But I need your word or I am not moving aside, and I will do what I must if you try to get past me.”

“You’ll hurt or kill me for attempting to see what you have concealed from your masters? You would not survive a day after I am dead.”

“This is worth more than my life, domine,” he said firmly, then repeated, “It is not dishonest.”

Curious, Marcus sighed, “I make no promise to return to my bed, or to forget what I will see, but I sense you are in trouble, and so I promise not to hurt you and to do whatever I can to help you.”

With another long pause, Esca stepped aside. Light from the lamp fell into the alcove.

Marcus limped forward, bringing the light closer, and peered for a moment longer than it should have taken for a man to recognize an egg. He inhaled in surprise, hung the lamp on a nail. The egg was in hay, cushioned in the support frames of the wall like a cradle. It would fill Marcus’ big hand if he was to pick it up, but he would not even try; such eggs were not to be jostled, and certainly weren’t to be touched by anyone but the _abdo_ that had lain it.

“You’re a tuck?” Marcus asked, incredulous, looking away from the incriminating egg to the Briton, the _abdo,_ who went to his knees before his little treasure and put a hand affectionately and protectively on the perfect curvature of the shell. “How can you be a tuck?”

Esca looked up at him with a twinkle in his eyes that Marcus belatedly realized was amusement. To answer him, the slave rocked back on his heels, grabbed his tunic and pulled upward to reveal his stomach. Marcus saw a hard-lined abdomen with a gently curving, horizontal slit, the length of a hand, where Marcus and others who were not from a _marsupium_ blood line had bellybuttons. It was a pouch. A tuck-away. A man’s womb.

The roman sputtered at the sight, looked back at the egg when the tunic was lowered again. “But… but any enslaved tuck would have been sold as such. You should have cost _ten times_ whatever uncle paid!”

“My last master paid full price for me, which only increased his ire upon finding out I was pregnant. He was careful, you see. He always insured his pleasure would not lead to…” a motion to the egg, “Thus, he knew I had been with someone else. And because I had been given strict orders not to… stray… my punishment was to be given as a gift to the games master under the explicit terms that I get killed in the first round of the Saturnalia games—the soonest to occur. But you saved me. It all happened so quickly, the games-master never had time to notice my gender and so sold me cheap.”

“But—but your tattoos! Those are _warrior_ tattoos!”

“Yes,” Esca said, with a look down at his arm as if he might see the blue ink swirling on his skin under the sleeves of his tunic. “You Romans underestimate your tucks, pampering them and treating them like glass; Britons know men are not lessened by a pouch, but are made stronger for it. If only we had an army of men like me, you never would have beaten us.”

“Your pride for the gender gives you credit, but don’t get carried away,” Marcus snorted.

In one quick, fluid movement, Esca was on his feet and facing Marcus, the tip of his dagger on the soldier’s chin strap scar. His grey eyes were darkened by the light of the single lamp, but no less penetrating. His jaw was hard, his voice was low. “You are in my nest, Roman. I have no qualms against killing anything that threatens my egg.”

Hot with adrenaline, Marcus knocked the threat of the knife away with a hard blow into Esca’s wrist and in the same instant swung at Esca with his walking stick, but the Briton caught it before it connected with his head and Marcus was left to go off balance. For a wild moment, he thought he would fall but then he had a grip on both Old Emperor and Esca, dagger and stick falling to the hay at their feet.

“Careful!” Esca cried as he struggled to hold up Marcus’s sagging weight, “you’ll reopen the wound; it must heal further before you exert yourself.”

Carefully, they lowered Marcus—his leg quivering and useless under his weight—to the intensely musky smelling ground to rest with his back against the removed plank of Esca’s nest. The tuck knelt at Marcus’s side, helped him to straighten the leg and prodded at the surrounding muscle with his fingers, “That was stupid of you.”

“You pulled a dagger on me!” Marcus cried, laughing instead of being offended.

“I was proving a point,” Esca smirked. He managed to sound apologetic, but only just.

“That you consider a slight towards your gender to be a physical threat to your egg?”

There was a beat and then Esca snorted, giving him that one, and turned back to his egg.

“Where did you have it?” Marcus asked. Given the size of the ovum, he could not imagine that Esca pushed it out without drawing attention to himself.

“The lavatory,” Esca replied, “I—“ a half glance at Marcus, and he shifted somewhat awkwardly, “I kept myself as stretched as much as I could ahead of time and when it came, I didn’t make a sound.” He was proud about that and _should_ be, considering the sheer size of it.

A noise popped out of Marcus’ throat, and he cleared it, delicately moved his mind away from the image of Esca stretching himself at night, only a few feet from Marcus. “Must have taken a while; how were you not missed?”

“Sasstica believed I was having stomach problems,” Esca grinned, naming the head of uncle’s kitchen slaves.

“Why hide it at all? We could have made you very comfortable in the house.”

Esca took a moment to answer, “I was afraid that if I was known as a tuck, I would be sold right away. You are placental here.”

Marcus was rendered silent by the stinging logic.

Many households of one blood line did not keep a slave of the other, as a way to prevent the lines from mixing, and Uncle's was no different.

“I cannot be sold,” Esca continued. “ _You_ saved me, and it is _you_ I serve. This is a good place, and I do not wish to leave it.”

In the following silence, Old Emperor shifted his cumbersome weight, sneezed. Marcus sat feeling rather dazed. He could hardly believe the secret he had stumbled upon. An _abdo_ in his own house! He had never for a moment believed he would live so close to a tuck, even an enslaved one that was scarred, hardened and native, (far removed from the beautiful poise of a Roman _abdo_ ).

There had been a marsupial whore-house full of slave tucks where Marcus had first trained… but he’d been young then, and shy, and on the rare occasions when he’d visited, he had always lost his nerve and requested a woman. He remembered the unblemished planes of skin across those women’s abdomens, no bellybutton because they came from their tuck-father’s egg…

Esca’s now was the first time ever that Marcus had ever actually seen a pouch. He knew little of the details to come, but he did understand that when the egg hatched, Esca would put the hatchling in his pouch and carry it there until it was as big as a newborn baby, in need of feeding on the breasts he would have by then, like the abdo at the games.

Marcus was very curious about what it was like inside a pouch. There was supposed to be a teat in there for the child to feed on as it grew… would it be as responsive as a woman’s nipple under a slick warm tongue?

“Domine,” Esca broke into his thoughts just as they made a rather alarming turn into the kind of thinking that pain and injury had robbed from Marcus these past couple of months. “You gave your word that you would help me.”

Of course.

While this barn was the best possible place Esca could have picked, warm and dry and somewhere that it would not be discovered by accident, the egg obviously could not stay here—it could not be good for the child’s health when it hatched.

“Stop calling me _domine_. I’m Marcus or nothing at all.”

“Okay.”

“I understand why you feared that we would sell you, but you have my word that we will not. Come, then. Remake your nest in the house, and guard it as you should.”

Wide-eyed with surprise, Esca said flatly, “I cannot be revealed to your uncle.”

“Why not?” Marcus asked, befuddled, “Keeping a tuck in a placental house is only dangerous when the tuck is a sex slave, which you are not. Uncle will understand that you need to care for your child these coming months; but only if he _knows_ there is a child.”

“But I cannot let my child be born into your household.”

Understanding softened Marcus’ expression and he dropped a kind hand onto Esca’s shoulder, “He will be born a slave, true. But I will see that he is treated with gentleness until he is of age. And I’m sure my uncle would never think of separating a child from his poucher.”

“I would never allow it if he did!” Esca snapped with the heat of murderous sincerity. But then the fire left him and he slumped, seeming defeated, “But that is not my worry. I know you are good masters here.”

“Then what is it?”

Esca shifted nervously and said, “My previous master knew that I conceived with a Briton slave from a neighboring estate--placental.” Marcus’ stomach dropped and Esca finished, “By your barbaric laws, my child will be sterilized.”

“But,” tipped from Marcus’ lips instantly, “But, surely you realize that it would be for the child’s greater good. Especially if it is a tuck or a girl; a life of miscarriages is a terrible fate which the law saves them from.”

The law was adamant that any child (freeborn or slave) born of a marsupial and placental union had to be sterilized in a painful and often times deadly procedure, because mix-blooded offspring was doomed to nothing but ill-fated pregnancies; no matter what they paired with, their blood was incapable of producing a pregnancy through to its end.

Marcus’ mother had explained it to him like this: it was very much like when a horse and a donkey procreated to make a mule. The mule would be healthy, but unable to produce viable young. So, too, could a placental person and a marsupial person have a healthy child, but the line would stop there.

It was Rome’s opinion that such people had no place in a growing civilization, and so mixed blood unions were frowned upon and what children came of them were required by law to be sterilized upon sexual maturity. If anyone attempted to thwart that law, punishment was death.

“The gods make our fate,” Esca said firmly, “and we must endure it, not thwart it. My child is mixed in blood, _Mhiúil_.  You are right, it is a hard life, but it can bring much good. In my tribe, the _Mhiúil_ are raised with respect for in their time they will be the harbor of great wisdom. Also they carry hope.”

“How do you mean?”

“You Romans have made it your custom for so long to shun and blunt them that you would not know, but sometimes the gods give _mhiúil_ healthy children. The odds are greatly against them, of course, but every now and then it does happen. And that is a miracle, a grace from the gods born on a single thread of hope, and it is such blessed blood lines that tie both forms of Men together. We must not cut away that thread without giving it a chance, or else one or both bloodlines will become like animals to the other.”

Marcus was quite as he studied Esca, who eyed his precious egg with sadness but determination. In him now was the same spark, which had compelled Marcus in the arena that day to save his life. He knew as surely as he did that he would save Esca’s life, that he would not force him to subject his child to sterilization. Which meant that Uncle could not find out about the egg

“You can remake your nest in the trunk in my room,” Marcus said, “You can wear the key around your neck,” and when Esca started to speak he raised his voice, “and your secret is safe with me. My uncle is kind, he wouldn’t mistreat you or your child, but he would abide by the law regardless of your beliefs. I did not save you from death only to force you to watch the hope of your child’s future die.”

Esca huffed, blinking rapidly and then clasped his arm tightly before spinning around and quickly gathering up his egg for the relocation of his nest.

..

..

..

The Briton moved very slowly, holding his bundle so as to prevent as much jostling as possible. Once back in his room, Marcus found the key to the old trunk that sat in the corner next to the head of his bed. Esca put the egg on the furs and made quick work of getting Marcus’ old armor in a pile beside his new hideaway.

Pulling linen from the cupboards, the slave padded the trunk well and then gently placed the egg inside. Marcus, sensing Esca’s discomfort from having it out in the open and being moved around, waited until the egg was removed from his bed before finally taking his weight off his aching leg there.

He watched in silence as Esca knelt at the trunk, at first getting the egg situated and then just looking at it. When Marcus gently nudged him, the tuck roused himself from his thoughts, took the offered key, and shut the trunk. Then all at once, he faced Marcus, gripping him by the back of the neck. His chin was hard and his eyes fierce with sincerity, “I already serve you in a life debt, but let me now make another—for the life of my child.”

“No—” Marcus began, but Esca cut him off with a hard squeeze of the nape of his neck.

“It might have hatched and starved because it was hours before I could get to it, someone could have found it, the horses could have…” he shook his head to dislodge what Marcus could imagine was a hundred different horrific scenarios he had been agonizing over, “but now that you know my secret, it will be easier once I am pouching it to keep attention away from how wary I will be of people getting too close me. And together we can figure out what to do once I have breasts and it is too big to carry anymore.”

Esca’s eyes were hard, clear and grey, peering intensely into Marcus'. “You have saved us and for that I make an oath of honor—to my gods, and to yours: _I will never abandon you_.”

..

..

..

The creak of the trunk lid woke Marcus early. He rolled in his bed to see Esca kneeling in the corner, gently locking the case. At Marcus’ sign of life, the tuck looked up and smiled happily.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

The Roman returned the greeting with a nod and a yawn. His mind raced to remember all that had been revealed last night. It was no dream. A _human egg_ existed in this room, a secret from his uncle, hope flying in the face of the law--it all felt like someone else’s life.

“And…how are things?”

With a secretive wink, Esca stood to return to work, sticking the key somewhere up his tunic, in the waist-band of his braccae or— _oh_.

Marcus balked as he understood where a tuck might conceal a key. Color threatened to warm the man’s cheeks, but the silliness passed as quickly as Esca’s empty hand emerged from his clothing.

Marcus stared. The convenience of it charmed him endlessly, and he rested back on his pillow with a small smile on his face, contemplating what little important things might be commonly stored for safe keeping in a tuck’s pouch.

Esca resumed his morning chores as if he had merely popped into the trunk after a ball of twine—the anxious behavior of the last several days was gone with barely a trace. The improvement only strengthened Marcus’ conviction that his actions last night were right. All suspicious behavior now erased, there was no threat of discovery, especially with the slave so cleverly hiding the key like he did; someone might have questioned a throng about his neck.

A silent thrill coursed through the soldier. Oh, how he would enjoy keeping such a special secret for an _abdo_! He gazed at the locked chest, yearning to see the egg again—his mind raced with wives’ tales about holding the specimen to a bright light and seeing the shape of life inside it. He knew of course he would never be allowed to test the legitimacy of such an experiment, not unless he miraculously won a tuck husband who could give him an egg of his own...

Clearing his throat, Marcus decided to get out of bed rather than allow his thoughts to linger on such inappropriate longings. He put his feet to the cold ground and needed a moment for the pain in his leg to subside. Esca was at his elbow in an instant.

“You have exercised it too much. A rub?”

Still grimacing from the spasms of pain, Marcus nodded. Esca’s hands went to the twitching muscle and kneaded it kindly as the doctors had demonstrated it to be done. Within moments the cramp was cured, and Marcus heeded the light touch to his shoulder, a silent order to lay back and rest.

With a morose sigh, he obeyed.

..

..

..

After following doctor’s orders, and receiving regular messages from Esca’s strong hands, Marcus’ leg was in working order after only a few more days. Eager to do more than sit about, Marcus saddled Old Emperor for a ride. Esca displayed some trepidation at leaving the house—he had not since moving the egg indoors—but as a slave with a few life debts sworn in place, he did not argue or complain.

“You can stay. You can polish my armor. It will be a full day’s work right on top of the chest.”

A smile tugged one side of Esca’s mouth upwards, and he swung onto the horse he had readied at Marcus’ side. “Some fresh air will do us both some good. We will not be gone all day.”

In truth, Marcus would have loved to spend all of day light outdoors, rather than return to his tomb, but he nodded in agreement. He would not keep a tuck from his nest any longer than he had to.

Marcus carried a spear with him, mostly just because he didn’t feel complete on a horse without a ready weapon at hand. As they trotted through fields toward the river, he relished in the journey, pretending secretly that he was traveling to a new fort for a new post. The game was helped by the company of another rider, as if he led a band of men. Marcus pondered on the dream he'd had of traveling to a familiar place, finding a strange comfort in it.

At mid-day they came upon a boar and spent an exciting half-hour hunting it. His leg was not fit for a treacherous run over the terrain, and even if he could have managed that, they didn’t have the proper crossed spear, so they improvised. Chasing the thing down on horseback proved problematic, but it only added to Marcus’ enjoyment.

Esca proved himself the warrior by applying strategy, following Marcus’ orders to the letter as they maneuvered to corner the beast, sharing the spear by tossing it back and forth as needed. When the creature was finally felled by Marcus’ powerful throw, the game was over, and Marcus’ heart had not pounded so fiercely in many weeks.

He sat by the river in the warm sunshine, snacking on some fruit and watching the murky water slide past as Esca worked to gut the animal in the grass behind him. The boar would make a fine meal—made sweeter as proof that Marcus was not so very useless after all. Though the simple task of sneaking up on a boar had been made a challenge, he had accomplished the kill, and knew he could someday do all that he had been able to before the injury.

The sunlight reflected off his bracelet, a reminder of his discharge, and he no longer felt like eating. He tossed the apple core into the water as Esca came to the river’s edge to wash the bloody dagger. The curve of the tuck’s back drew Marcus’ eye. He had noticed before on other soldiers, how pleasing to the eye a man’s well-rounded bottom in breeches could be, but he had never allowed such thoughts to take root as they did now.

Only once or twice in the lonely desperation of an isolated fort after months on end had Marcus ever given way to his desires for the male figure—and those few occurrences had been hidden away in dark corners, brief, sloppy hand jobs, hardly satisfying.

He had heard that other civilizations outside of the empire allowed men to lie together as commonly as they did with tucks and women… but in Rome, a man did not yield to another in such a way. In Rome, the only way a man could enjoy the male figure was by bedding a tuck. Which meant Marcus—an Aquila who could never hope to earn a tuck’s good graces—had always put an end to thoughts of a male figure in his bed, whole bodies close and warm and straining…

Marcus’ eye traveled from the strong bow of Esca’s back to the meat of his thigh, on display as he squatted to work between his boney knees.

It all blossomed in the Roman’s head in that moment, the full glory of an _abdo_. A man’s body with a woman’s appeal—particularly after the child was nursing from heavy breasts. Esca would then have all of the alluring features that had ever captured Marcus’ attention. How good it would be to draw Esca in under the covers and feel the softness of his flesh, the firmness of his muscles, the scratch of his beard… perhaps see what would happen if he drew his finger lightly over the very lip of his pouch. Would it make fierce, proud Esca tremble?

Marcus swallowed dryly and a little bit of his resolve fell away. He thought, _Roman men do not yield, but no one cares if a man takes a slave_ … and Esca was a tuck, anyway, so where was the problem? Realizing the nature of his thoughts, Marcus shook his head one very hard time and started to berate himself.

He had always been staunchly against the use of bed slaves—there was no honor in it—and now just because he had the chance to know, and feel, and taste, and _satisfy_ a tuck, he was considering it!

Ashamed of himself, he cleared his head of it altogether and focused on something other than Esca.


	3. Three

With the boar delivered to the kitchens, and his thoughts held far from his musings at the river, Marcus walked from the stables to the house with Esca three steps behind him. The moment they were indoors, he was beset by Uncle, who just looked tired.

“Marcus, what have you done with the key to the chest in your room?”

“Why?” he asked, barely able to repress his alarm. Behind him, Esca made half a noise of inquiry before he clamped his mouth shut and looked at the floor.

“Stephanos has been trying to locate it. He believes the extra linens must be inside, and we need them for our guests.”

“Guests?” Marcus asked, trying to sound interested in the only safe part of that entire sentence. Uncle sighed. “Yes. They are only politicians, here for their yearly pandering to earn my support for the next elections.”

“Of course—Esca,” Marcus said, sensitive to how painfully the tuck must wish to check on the egg quickly. “Go and find the key and fetch the linens will you?” Esca was gone in a flash.

“Sorry Uncle. I would not have taken help away from Stephanos if I had known the house was to be prepared for company.”

“No matter. I’m pleased you were up for some rigorous activity at long last. How’s your leg?”

Marcus barely heard the question, for someone had shouted loudly from his room. There was a commotion. Marcus caught his Uncle with a hand on his shoulder. “Allow me, Uncle. I think I know what this is about.”

“Well,” Uncle huffed, clearly unsure of what to think of any of it. The slaves of Calleva were usually so quiet and got along nicely. Marcus hurried down the hall to find that one of the kitchen girls—he did not know her name—was crying and nursing her arm, and Esca was sitting on the trunk, looking murderous.

“Girl—“ Marcus addressed her, “What did you do to your arm?”

“He nearly broke it!” she cried, though he could tell she was mostly scared and not hurt at all.

“Esca,” he leveled the name at the slave with no small amount of pleading in his eyes. He understood the _abdo_ ’s actions—he must have found the girl prying the lock—but how were they to explain such behavior?

“ _Domine_ ,” she said to Marcus, “He yelled at me for making a mess of the room, but all I’ve done is brought the trunk into the light to inspect the lock and I was going to put it back!”

“Thank you, you’re not in trouble for moving the chest, and I am sorry he handled you roughly. He’s only in a hurry. We’ve very important guests and little time to prepare for them.”

“Yes, _domine_ ,” she said, bowing her head.

“Inform my uncle that Esca shall continue to look for the key in here, and tell Stephanos there is a good chance it might have made its way back into my saddlebags.”

She departed, still rubbing her wrists. The moment she was gone, Esca spun to the floor in front of the chest, dug the key out if its secret hiding place, fumbled with the clunky lock, and then ripped open the lid. Marcus took the heavy top out of Esca’s hand and held the box open for him.

Inside, the egg looked to be in the same place in which it had been originally nestled with all the clean linen that was being searched for. At the sight of it, Esca released a noise of utmost relief and he reached inside to caresses it, as if feeling for invisible cracks. Marcus touched Esca’s shoulder before he realized his action.

“I am sorry I took you away from here.”

The tuck startled slightly under his touch, but then shook his head. “All is well, Marcus. We’ve fretted over a slight occurrence.”

“She might have thrown it over or something,” Marcus couldn’t help speaking the fears that had coursed through him in the last several minutes. He certainly would have taken a hammer to an unyielding box and shattered the thing, were it his orders to get at whatever was inside.

“Had she done that, I would have killed her.”

Marcus had never heard someone speak of murder with such certainty, not even soldiers speaking of battle; they talked of killing in tactical phrases or not at all, and now out of this quiet slave’s mouth he heard an oath of bloodshed, in a tone of voice that promised the act would have been comforting.

Perhaps tucks _did_ make stronger warriors after all; they needed only to picture their nests in danger.

With a grunt of bemusement at such an inspiring thought in regards to a tuck-father’s love--indeed, any parent’s love--Marcus nodded at the wardrobe. “Use what clothes of mine you can to rebuild the bed. I will take the linens to Stephanos.”

“Who are the guests?”

“Politicians.”

“Which ones?”

“I do not know. Why?”

The slave shook his head and shrugged, but Marcus was not convinced that the rapid second question had been so innocent. He watched Esca gently lift the egg, but the slave had concealed his curiosity as easily as he could hide a key.

Shaking his head, Marcus unceremoniously scooped out all of the fabric and stumped out of the room. Uncle found him apologizing to Stephanos for all the trouble, and announced, “They are here, coming into the house now.”

“Dinner is almost ready, _domine_ ,” the fat slave said.

“Where is Esca?” Uncle didn’t wait for an answer but glanced around before lowering his voice, “I have just heard that he was unkind to one of the girls a moment ago. She was in tears.”

“Oh, I have already handled it,” Marcus assured, “From what I can tell, he forgot his strength in his haste to find the key in time. But he is sorry.”

Uncle was nodding, relieved. “Good, good. I would hate for the new addition to cause trouble. It’s been a peaceful house all these years…”

“Uncle, might I be excused from dinner? My leg has reached its limit.”

“Yes, you may. If only I had such an excuse. I will make your apologies; go lie down. Perhaps Esca can rub in more of that oil. It seems to be doing the trick.”

Marcus limped back to his room, too pink to look back over his shoulder at his Uncle, whose tone of voice had sounded far too knowing as he spoke of Esca’s duties for him. Everyone knew what Uncle did with Stephanos, and judging by the twinkle in his old eye, Uncle seemed to think Esca did the same for Marcus. He certainly understood that Marcus wanted Esca to.

..

..

..

Esca wrapped the egg in the rattiest of Marcus’ togas, as well as the red cape of his armor—that would certainly never be called for use again. At the sight of the large white egg among his clothes, Marcus had a peculiar twist of yearning again. He wished to own such a treasure.

But then he considered that he did _technically_ own it, or at least his uncle did. He sighed as he settled on his bed. Esca closed the trunk and locked it, but Marcus did not get to watch him put the key away again. Instead, Esca turned it over and over again in his fingers. “Thank gods there is but one key…” he said aloud.

Marcus hummed with agreement. “I do not know how my Uncle would have even dealt with such a discovery…” he considered how an _abdo_ slave might be the kind of body slave that would save Uncle from whispered ridicule…

Then with a jolt it occurred to him that Esca had been used in such a way before. He felt sick, and then he had nothing but questions.

“Esca….who owned you, prior to the games-master?”

Esca gave a respectable sounding title, one that Marcus had heard before, somewhere. He frowned, and then he understood. “A politician?”

“As was the master of the neighboring estate, the owner of the placental man I bred with… But neither are downstairs; I checked,” Esca said with a quirk in his lips. Marcus grinned back.

“No. I should hope not. What would you have done if they _had_ arrived?”

There was a pause, and then Esca laughed and shrugged at the same time. “I would have…hidden up here, I suppose. Crawled into the trunk with my egg and pretended I was as dead as my former master believes me to be.”

“And if your lover had traveled with his master?”

Esca smiled. “We were not as close as lovers. It was a drunken night of defiance to Rome. A brief window of freedom and pleasure that is gone now…He was sold to the games master with me…” Esca’s stormy eyes met Marcus’. “No one shouted for his life.”

Throat dry again, Marcus said nothing. Esca put the key on a chain and hung it on the wall and eventually spoke, “My only fear now is that one day they will learn the child is alive and order the operation.”

“I will prevent that from ever happening,” Marcus instantly swore.

“If your Uncle does not sell me and the child for proper value first… I believe it will be a tuck, too,” he added softly, looking at the chest with a loving smile tinged with excitement.

The fire in the Briton’s eyes captivated Marcus. This tuck was _born_ to have children, and here in the left hand corner of Marcus’ bedroom grew one. He felt somehow privileged to play even that small role.

To break the spell that had fallen over him, Marcus cleared his throat and asked conversationally, “Are there ways to tell the gender so soon?”

“No,” Esca laughed at Marcus and shook his head. Then he silenced himself in respect and looked to the floor humbly, shrugged one shoulder as he admitted. “I have only had a dream…”

“A good one?” Marcus hoped, for he truly believed the gods spoke through dreams, and he hoped there was nothing but happiness in this tuck’s future. Esca nodded, and though he was curious, Marcus did not pry any further.

..

..

..

The rest of the nesting period happened without incident. Marcus became so used to falling asleep and waking up to the sight of Esca kneeling at his bedside, peering contentedly down into the trunk that he somehow started to think it would always be like that.

He tried not to stare whenever Esca was doting on his egg, a sincere and pensive expression softening his angled features, and he tried not to be so eager to see the key coming and going from its little hide away.

Autumn waned and the first frosts of the year arrived on the night that Esca was kneeling at the trunk, as usual, before going to bed. Gazing down at his egg, the slave broke into Marcus’ light slumber. “Any day now.”

“Hm?”

“The hatching will be any day now,” Esca was smiling, ear to ear, and did not tear his eyes from the egg until the turn of his head forced him to do so. His grey eyes lit on Marcus’ face, bright and beautiful, “Soon you can have your trunk back.”

Sitting up in sudden alarm, Marcus looked down at the egg, which had grown whiter and whiter and more brittle since he first saw it in the stables, when the soft shell had nearly matched the color of the old hay.

Suddenly the idea of hiding a hatchling as effectively as they had an egg seemed a daunting one. Of course, being in Esca’s pouch, it would be vastly simpler—but at the same time infinitely more risky.

“You’ll need twice the food,” Marcus said, “And Sasstica won’t be so easy to sneak from.”

Esca waved a hand, “I have already thought of a solution to that.”

“Speak it.”

“Your uncle already thinks I pleasure you, so you will just have to make it known that I must have twice the helpings at each meal because you prefer that I be softer about the waist. I have seen it done in many bed slaves; no one will question it, and it will account for the swell in my body as the joey grows.”

Clearing his throat, Marcus said, “But--everyone thinks you’re a man. I can't have a man for a bed slave.”

Esca gave him a long, silent look that plainly called him an idiot.

Wanting to change the subject, Marcus moved to the next obstacle, “I’ll come up with a reason for you to be punished and locked in here for a few days, to ensure you are here to greet him.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” Esca said and the Roman laughed at the idea of a slave thanking his master for the promise of punishment.

“And what about when the baby starts to seek the light and make sound?”

Rocking back on his heels, Esca plucked at his lip, looking concerned, even frightened. “I have not planned it out that far ahead. But I will not have him blunted. I’ll die first.”

Not liking that Esca started to look more like he did before he shared his secret--lost and alone and desperate--Marcus waved a hand, “It is months away, yet. I am sure we will think of something.”

Nodding, Esca leaned back onto the trunk and rested a hand on the shell, “I will do whatever it takes to make a good life for him; no matter how degrading or painful. My father taught me that every life you watch grow is worth more than your own, and any price is the right price.”

“Your tuck father?” Marcus asked.

“No, I had a mother,” Esca looked sad for a moment, but then looked at Marcus. He did not say anything, nor did he seem to expect Marcus to speak. For his part, Marcus was distracted by the notion of a navel scar hidden away with the key. How fun it would have been to have discovered such a thing on his own while enjoying Esca’s body in these quiet hours. The household presumed he was doing it, anyway.

Marcus was tortured for the rest of the night with the urge to discover other scars on the warrior tuck.


	4. Four

After putting some thought to it, Marcus abandoned the punishment excuse, for in his Uncle’s house a slave was reprimanded but never kept from chores, so he would simply say that Esca was ill. There was no objection when he insisted that he deliver the medicines and meals and this, in part, was because of his bashfully given instructions concerning Esca’s new diet and why.

“Esca will from now on have two helpings of everything,” he’d stammered to Sasstica, while Esca stood there at his side with an amused smirk. “F-fatten him up.”

Since then, everyone seemed to stare at Marcus wherever he went with Esca at his side, and he had to learn to control his blushes and his thoughts—for imagining he shared a bed with the handsome tuck was far too easy and joyfully done, but having the whole house assume he lay with a man was degrading to his Roman senses. He knew how his Uncle was perceived, a foolish eccentric, and to think others saw him the same way made Marcuse sure his father was turning over in his grave. The only two Aquila's left brought nothing but shame to the name.

The hatching happened just one day after Marcus had made the announcement that Esca was too ill to leave his room. There had been no change in the egg all afternoon, and after dinner, Marcus had become worried about maintaining an illness for so long, for if Esca’s health did not seem to improve quickly doctors would be summoned and the truth revealed.

Nervous for more reasons than just keeping a secret, Marcus retired for bed to find Esca kneeling in his usual place before the trunk. The windows were shut and all candles but one were snuffed, putting the room in as much darkness as possible, but giving light enough to see if anything went wrong. Without taking his eyes from within the makeshift cradle, the tuck motioned for Marcus to shut the door and come closer.

“Is it--?”

“Not yet, but soon. Very soon,” the _abdo_ whispered excitedly. Marcus peeked into the box, expecting to see a change in the egg, some kind of fissure or crack, but the shell was intact and glowing softly in the candlelight under Esca’s rough hand. When Esca looked at him, it was with a smile of such radiance that it stole Marcus’ breath.

“How do you know?” Marcus gasped, hurrying to sit on the bed to see.

“He’s trying,” Esca said, with a motion of his hand on the egg, “I can feel him moving.”

“Can--“ Marcus began before he even thought. He swallowed the rest, but Esca was onto him. After a long pause, the slave pulled his hand away and nodded his permission.

Breathing shallowly, fingers shaky, Marcus sank to his knees and rubbed his palm on his clothes like it might be too dirty to touch the little gem.

The shell was smooth and warm to the touch, almost like a bowl of soup. His hand was on it for a moment before he felt a vibration. He laughed giddily. “Gods, that is amazing! There is someone in there!”

Esca laughed and bit his lips, nodding happily.

Beneath his palm, Marcus felt several more knocks, and then something cracked. He inhaled sharply and banged his elbow on the chest he retracted his arm so quickly, crying, “I did not—“

Esca gasped and words that Marcus did not understand fell from his lips like a prayer.

“The shell broke from the inside, Esca! I did not—“

“Shh,” the tuck said, putting a hand on Marcus’ knee. It silenced him instantly, for it was his good knee and not one that anyone touched. The hand stayed there, warm and heavy, as Esca watched his egg intently. Marcus’ eyes were glued to the same spot, and though he couldn’t think of the last time he sat with such an intimate connection to another—perhaps never—his racing thoughts were quickly pulled back to the battle happening within the folds of his old cape.

A yawning crack had reached across the face of the shell. Under their watchful gaze, a second crack splintered off, a sharp down-shoot to the southwest that opened a triangular hatch. The flap lifted once, twice, but did not fall away. Marcus had the unbearable urge to reach in and help the little thing. To stop himself, he held the hand on his lap.

When a third crack hooked to the northeast, the entire top half of the shell lifted. Esca gasped and his fingers closed tightly between Marcus’ knuckles. The breathless soldier spared a half-glance at the tuck in time to see a tear drop free from his face. Esca was still murmuring in his native language, and Marcus recognized relentless encouragement and love.

The bottom half of the shell splintered and collapsed, and Marcus gasped at the sight of such little legs, laughed with Esca for the fetus was now wearing the top half of his egg like an overlarge helmet. Esca reached inside and gently picked the hat off, scooped the little life into his palm.

Marcus brought the candle a little closer, so that Esca could see clearly as he checked his child head to toe. With a closer look, the Roman was privately alarmed. It did not look quite human, for there were months of further development to go. For now, Marcus counted two arms, two legs, eyes and ears where they ought to be, a nose (not yet risen out of the face) in the center; the proportions of it all would simply take time to sort out within the warm confines of Esca’s pouch.

The oddest thing was the top of the forehead, where the skin looked hard and peeked like a bird’s beak. Marcus didn’t have to ask what it was. That shell tooth had helped the infant free itself, and would fall off in a few days.

“He’s perfect,” Esca breathed, his prodding fingers unfurled the curled fetus to peek at the belly, and he laughed wetly with joy. “I knew it. The gods told me… You are a tuck,” he told the child wetly, placing a light kiss to his soft little head.

“Congratulations,” Marcus choked.

One handed, Esca pushed up his tunic and opened his pouch further than Marcus had ever seen the skin stretched. He balked as Esca buried his hand—child and all—into his abdomen. Smirking, the Briton said, “I have been stretching it all day. He will have room to breathe and wriggle about freely. Do not worry.”

Marcus stared dumbly at the sight of Esca’s hand buried in such an odd way into his own stomach. It looked to Marcus as if the tuck’s shifting fist was attempting to catch hold of some slimy guts to rip out, as Marcus had seen on the battle field or on surgeons’ tables.

No such horrific thing happened, of course. Esca worked silently inside the pouch—doing gods knew what—until he gave a breath of frustration and fear, “He will not—ah,” he relaxed promptly, head dropping back, exposing his long creamy throat to warm candle light. “He has latched, finally.”

Gulping, Marcus remembered the discreet teat and tried to think of something to say. When Esca’s hand emerged empty, Marcus got a glimpse of a gently distended abdomen before the baggy tunic covered it all again. Clearing his throat, he got into his bed without a word, mind racing with the miracle of life as well as the incredible ways of the _abdo_ —it seemed all together such a cleaner way to start life, as opposed to the bloody, screaming mess women made.

Esca cleaned up the dry, simple remains of the hatching, closed the chest, and placed the key on the top. The egg shell was crumbled into dust and scattered outside before Esca stretched out on his pallet with a sigh of contented happiness, a hand caressing the new curve in his body.

Several hours passed before Marcus found sleep.

..

..

..

Carrying his hatchling, Esca seemed as tense as the days when he had hid his egg in the stables. If the Briton could be treated properly as a tuck, then no one in their right mind would jostle him, and threaten the safety of his vulnerable hatchling. He would be given his own room, and time to rest, but he was just a man serving the Aquila house--and one of the only men, too, so in addition to compromising instincts to allow strangers near him, Esca had to do quite a bit of heavy lifting.

Marcus did his best to ease Esca’s suffering. He remembered not to walk too near him, to always stop at arm’s length, and if he saw other slaves getting too near Esca as they worked on a chore together, Marcus came up with any excuse he could think of to draw one or the other to another part of the room.

It would be easiest to order Esca to do obscure, solitary work, but of that kind there was little to do on uncle’s property--and what there was could be too quickly finished--and so more than Marcus or the pouching tuck liked Esca was made to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with others at wash tubs or countertops, and be bumped into by the others as they passed him with armfuls of wood or supplies or food.

After a mere three days of this, Esca surprised Marcus by arriving at his elbow while the Roman stood catching his breath after a rigorous set of his old work-out routines. “Marcus,” Esca said quietly, respectfully. “I need a favor.”

“Of course,” Marcus answered, dabbing cloth to the beads of sweat on his neck.

“May I stand here--for a few moments?”

Frowning, Marcus cast a look around, found them alone, and asked, “Stand where?”

“Here,” Esca replied, moving a half step closer to him, eyes downcast and nose practically bumping Marcus’ collarbone.

Sharing this proximity with a pouching tuck alarmed the soldier and he dared not even breathe. Stunned, he watched Esca’s shoulders relax as he stood with his eyes closed, taking deep breathes. Finally, Marcus asked--whispering for fear of alarming him, “I thought tucks who were carrying hatchlings did not like others to be so near.”

“We do not,” Esca said, “And that is why I am here--just earlier, in the kitchen, Marcipor was not looking where he was going and rammed into me hard enough to knock me over.”

“He--“

“All is well. But I am…” his voice shook and he said, “rattled.” His eyes cut up to Marcus’, “I could not react as my instincts wanted. I--” his voice wavered and ceased. Marcus knew the rest, anyway. Esca had not been able to lash out at the stumbling man and punish him for his trespassing, not without first giving himself away. The torture it must be to be so vulnerable, but not have the freedom to demand protection.

Esca worried his lip, eyes closing and air drawing deeply into his lungs. His voice was a whispered confession, “I have not felt he was safe in any corner of this house from the moment I brought him into my pouch… save for whenever you are near.”

“Me?”

“You have protected us this far--I know that no matter how near you are, he is safe from harm.”

Charmed, Marcus smiled at the tuck, “Feel free to seek peace whenever the need arises.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

..

..

..

For the first time since Esca’s arrival, Marcus tried to create as many excuses for his slave’s presence as he could imagine, but Esca was frequently drawn away to perform some task or another and then another, and usually another.

And generally, Esca was able to go without too much anxiety, but sometimes he abruptly showed back up at Marcus’ side looking shaken and pale or dark and angry. There, close enough that Marcus often felt warm breath on his biceps, Esca would stay until he calmed, or was called away.

Marcus felt thrilled to be needed by a tuck, to fulfill such a precious need: personal space. Being a slave, Esca’s was not his own, but, being a Roman, Marcus’ was his own, and he could lend it to whomever he liked whenever he liked. And he did like to offer his immediate space to the slave. Esca’s grey eyes were muddled with blue at this close view, and his soft looking hair had copper highlights in the sun.

During the night, Marcus’ dreams filled with fantasies as he tried to find rest. A part of him knew the shame of his desires--a dishonored Aquila, a placental, a cripple, and the Roman master of the very Briton slave he debauched in his mind. But he could not resist the pleasure he found when he let go of his inhibitions and painted vivid scenes of Esca’s limbs tight around him as the breath of his strained pleas for more warmed Marcus’ neck.

 _I could treat him so well_ , Marcus thought, heart hurting, _I could give him everything he needs._

..

..

..

Because his leg had healed enough for extraneous exercise, nights became unsettled for Marcus. More and more frequently, after he’d drifted to sleep the past consumed him, dragged him into the depths of his mind, the darkest forests abiding inside, until he was lost. He knew he dreamed, but he could not wake.

Father appeared in full armor, astride a horse, prepared to ride away forever. He did not know what waited for him beyond the wall. But Marcus knew. He could _taste_ the slaughter, _felt_ the man’s screams of agony at the hands of savages, and saw nothing but the black shame of their family forever after.

“ _Pater_!” he choked, but the words would not bend over his youthful tongue.

The man laughed and ruffled his hair. “I will return. Let this token remind you.”

The eagle; honor; _Rome_ ; it was so heavy in Marcus’ young hand that he dropped it in the grass. Father rode away in a thundering gallop, and Marcus fell to his knees, searching the ground at his feet. Where was it? _What had happened to it_? He _needed_ it! Father gave it to _him_!

Not there. His hands fumbled uselessly over the dirt and worms that ate his flesh. No eagle. It was gone forever.

“PATER!” He could not chase after the horse. He could not run; he could not even stand. _His leg_ —the pain was enough to twist a young boy’s spine and leave him contorted in agony in the cold grass. The ground rose six feet above him, walls of bare moist earth and hungry worms that closed on him.

“PATER! THE EAGLE! _I CAN’T_! IT IS GONE! PATER!”

“ _A dream!_ ” someone pulled him from the cold grave. Soft hands flattened his ears, held him above ground where he could breathe at long last. “It is only a dream! _Wake up_!”

The nightmare’s hold on him snapped at last, and Marcus opened his eyes to his warm dry bedroom. His breaths filled his mouth and nose but not his lungs, his skin felt sticky ..with cold sweat. Someone flattened his damp hair to his forehead, petting him.

“Mater?” he mumbled thickly. A gruff voice laughed softly and the gentle hands reversed their stroke, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“It is Esca.”

“Oh,” he swallowed dryly and licked his salty lips. “Water?”

The body twisted away in the dark and a moment later a cool cup was at his lips. He drank gratefully and emptied it. As Esca twisted away again, Marcus became aware of how the slave held him close, sharing the bed, still petting him.

“Thank you,” he said. He focused on drawing deep breaths to release his rigid muscles from their lock of terror, and the slow, gentle brush of the slave’s hand on his head helped. Little by little, his shoulders loosened, his racing heart slowed, and his breathing became easier, and a thought occurred to him, “I did not harm you or the--“

“No,” Esca’s smirk was audible in the dark, “All is well. You did not fight me much.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“What is it you dreamed, Marcus?”

“A nightmare. It was nothing.”

“Sometimes saying it out loud helps cut back the fear. What happened in your nightmare?”

The gentle way he spoke, his soft tones and softer petting hands lulled Marcus into a trance of sublime security. “It was the last time I saw my father. I did not know it then, but in the dream, I am desperate to warn him that he is riding into danger but I cannot and then he is gone.”

“Sshh,” Esca soothed. Marcus closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy this feeling of being held, but he could not disregard the dream easily. This was not its first occurrence, and he puzzled the meaning behind the gods so tormenting him with the last memory of his father.

..

..

..

By morning, Marcus and Esca saddled up the horses again and rode out towards the river. Marcus needed a change of scenery, fresh air. His nightmare had turned him sour to the comfort and listlessness of his uncle's house. He should be  _doing_ something to reclaim his father's lost honor. But what? His confusion only made Marcus grouchy and so he and Esca did not say much as they set out together. Their ride was uneventful and quiet and by the time they reached the river, Marcus' attention had been pulled away from his troubles. As usual, Esca did it.

Swinging down off his horse, the tuck paused and put both hands on his pouch, the slight bulge there. His huge smile crinkled his cheeks and eyes and the bright sight broke through Marcus' sour mood so that the Roman smiled, too, and asked, "Have you a name for him?"

"It's unlucky to name a child until it is out of the pouch," Esca replied with tug on the flattened front fabric of his tunic to conceal his baby bump once more. He looked up at Marcus, then, as he offered a hand to help him down, "Your mood has improved."

"I have decided not to waste our day out in this fine weather by wallowing in my self pity." Once down on both his feet, Marcus took a moment to stretch his leg before limping tot he water's edge and stooping for a few swallows. Crouching there, he frowned at the water, glanced at his friend, and attempted to keep his fantasies at bay as an idea occurred to him. Weak in the face of what possibilities it might open, he asked, "How about a swim?"

Esca scoffed and shook his head. When Marcus failed to hide his disappointment, the tuck gave him a pointed look, "Marcus, if I dive in there my pouch would fill with water and the joey would drown."

Blushing horrendously at his own stupidity, Marcus laughed, "Of course. Forgive me. I had forgotten..." He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole. There he'd been so eager to have an excuse to see Esca naked he'd hadn't even stopped to think logistics. It occurred to Marcus that this would be where women had all the luck. Their babies were so much better protected by their bodies, they were not as limited as pouching tucks. They could swim. They could fuck.

"Do not let my limits stop you," Esca was insisting. "A swim would be wonderful exercise for your leg."

And so, trying not to blush, Marcus pulled away his clothes. He had bathed and gone swimming with his fellow soldier countless times before. This is like that, he told himself again and again. When he'd waded out into the middle of the river, the cool and inviting tug of the river's current against his skin buoyed his spirits immensely. He dove under and swam up stream, then floated with the current back down to the horses and Esca. He found the tuck had stripped away his shoes and rolled up each pant leg, sitting on a log with his feet in the water.

"Go down there and then walk back up against the current," Esca ordered with a motion downstream, "It will be good for your leg."

Marcus obeyed the command from his slave. He found it a pleasing kind of challenge to keep his balance and footing on the slick rocks. At one point the water was up to his chest, and the current so strong he almost couldn't get traction. By the time he managed it and returned to where he began, his leg was weak and shaky. He slumped onto the river bank and sat there, stretching the muscle, as he let the hot sun dry his skin. He did not look but he fancied he could feel Esca's eyes lingering on his bare body.


	5. Five

Esca ate every scrap given to him, appearing the most obedient body slave. The girls whispered as they eyed the Briton suspiciously, Marcus curiously. Esca walked around with a big smile on his face wherever he went, whatever he was doing. Often, he and Marcus spoke in soft voices well into the night about all manner of things.

Marcus longed to ask him about his past, before he was a slave, but any time the subject went that way, Esca changed it. Mostly they talked about Marcus, and curiously, the Roman didn’t mind. In fact, he wanted to tell Esca everything, but he was still somewhat thankful when the subject of his father and the eagle did not come up again, preventing that unhappy tale.

The days grew shorter and the nights glittered under frost before Marcus realized--and was bewildered, had to sit and grin for minute--that he was _happy_ in this life.

“It is cold tonight. Will you be all right or do you want another blanket?” As he spoke, Marcus realized his true question so, gulping, he just asked it. “Or you can sleep in the bed with me? Unless the close quarters will alert your instinct--”

Before he was even finished, Esca was climbing into the bed. Marcus scooted over, alarmed. “I did not know you were so uncomfortable down there.”

“It is only the cold tonight,” Esca assured, shivering as he settled into the warm blankets Marcus had been wrapped in for over an hour now. Esca had been kept at some chores, and still had the chill of the house on him. “I feel my pouch constricting around him I am so cold!”

“Is this--?” Marcus carefully curled an arm around Esca’s waist. He did not want to receive an elbow to the eye, or see the flash of that dagger, simply for sharing needed body heat but he had never, ever lain so close to someone without holding them and so he did it before he thought better, within the same moment of Esca stretching out beside him.

Esca only wriggled closer, pulling the blankets to his chin, and turning under Marcus’ draped arm to face him so that the growing bulge of his pouch was in the center of the warm bed. Marcus’ hand was briefly on Esca’s ass, and then he was not touching the tuck anymore.

Esca pulled the arm right back to his waist. “It is warmer when we are close.”

Heart pounding, Marcus shifted until he was comfortable enough that he might sleep. “I always wake in the exact position in which I fall asleep. You’ll not be elbowed or kicked in the night.”

Smirking, Esca draped an arm over Marcus’ waist, completing the nice warm shelter for the growing child hidden between them. “I do not move either and it has served me well. I have never been beaten for my habits in bed.”

Gulping, Marcus whispered, “You need not fear--in this private room you’re space is your own. Do not put aside your instinct to please me.”

Esca laughed gently. “You needn’t worry, _domine,_ ” his use of the word was playfully mocking, “It is for the heat as much as my own ease of mind. Truly, I can think of no safer place than in your arms.”

Heart fluttering for the way that sounded—lovers said such things, usually—Marcus didn’t trust himself to speak and a silence fell. They had not extinguished the candles and in the light, Esca appeared to be sleeping, but then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he lifted heavy eyelids.

“What is he doing now?” This was Marcus’ favorite question to ask lately, ever since the answer became more than just _only sleeping_ or _suckling away_. He had learned to reserve the question until a certain look fell over Esca—this slightly misty-eyed expression of inner reflection.

“He is stretching,” the _abdo_ announced softly. Sometimes he said _kicking_ or _swinging his arms_. “He has been a little ball all day, to keep warm, but now he can relax.”

“You should have told me. I’ll get you warmer clothes.”

“All is well. The temperature only dropped so suddenly, nothing could be done before now.”

“You are comfortable?”

“Extremely,” he yawned the word, eyes falling closed. It was another night that Marcus did not surrender to sleep for many hours.

They were running short on time. Here it was winter and Uncle was examining their budgets to save money, worrying that if the season was bad they’d be reduced to a very meager living. Marcus feared that these two treasures would be sold the moment they were discovered, the child branded and sterilized despite his best efforts to prevent it.

..

..

..

The weeks only grew colder, but Marcus found he was not as miserable about it as the rest of the house, not when every night Esca was scooting in under the covers next to him and letting him lay close to draw off the chill clinging to him. When the tuck curled on his side facing him, Marcus scrubbed his palm up and down Esca’s sleeve to warm him and he kept expecting the tuck to turn the other way, leave a distance between them, but Esca seemed content to fall asleep with Marcus’ arm over him.

Once or twice, Marcus woke up in the night and Esca had moved in close enough to have his head on Marcus’ shoulder, but always by the first light of morning, Marcus was left alone in his bed.

The bulge in Esca’s stomach grew. Then, one evening Marcus was absorbing scrolls in front of the fire when Esca suddenly knelt in the floor at his knee. Having not heard him come in, Marcus startled but then hummed a laugh and continued his reading.

“Marcus,” Esca began, respectively pulling him from the written word. “My chest grows and by spring, he’ll be trying out his voice.” The question was left unasked but hung in the air between them, _what are we going to do_?

There was only one solution Marcus could think of, but before he could voice it, Uncle’s laugh approached and then he was in the room, murmuring to Stephanos at his side, who immediately began to set up the tile games. The old slave argued only half playfully that he had better things to do than beat uncle in four moves flat.

Marcus stood, “I’ll play you, Uncle, if you’ll hear a request from me?”

Curious, Uncle looked to his body slave, who shrugged with the same curiosity, but then made himself scarce. Esca followed, giving Marcus a long look as he went. Determined, Marcus sat across from his uncle and got right to the point, “My leg is almost as strong as it once was.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Esca has served me well, very well. He’s a good man, and I have no need for a body slave any longer, so I was hoping you’ll give him his freedom. In return for all he has done for me so faithfully.”

Uncle grinned, having all kinds of ideas about how Esca had served him—given the excuse for why Esca ate so much, Marcus couldn’t deny the suspicion. Uncle examined the playing board and grunted with interest,

“You no longer want him?”

Marcus focused on maintaining aloof tones, “I have no need for him.”

“Is that so?” Uncle asked, idly moving a tile across the board. When Marcus nodded, the man shrugged a shoulder and explained in a voice that was carefully measured, “Our nearest neighbor and friend has been on the look-out for a suitable replacement and spotted Esca. We’ve discussed a fair payment, and the deal is already struck. She has simply loaned Esca to you for the duration of your recovery.”

Marcus choked. “ _What_?”

“I am worried what she might think now that you have fattened him up. But I suppose if a slave can be made fat, he can be made skinny again.”

Marcus’ throat closed too tightly for breath. “Oh…” he tried to think of something to say, his thoughts racing in panic. “I had no idea….why did you not mention it?”

Uncle chuckled. “I did not think you would care one way or the other, in truth. You have been insisting from day one that he is of no use to you. Money is more useful than a useless slave.”

“He is not useless. I have been bitter, unaccepting of gifts around me. My progress towards healing have been entirely Esca’s doing.”

“So I have observed. It is wonderful to see you walking so easily now. But that means Esca’s time with us is short lived now.”

This unsettling news raced in circles in his head. The neighboring house was placental also. And she almost certainly meant Esca to pleasure her while her husband traveled all over the map. The truth would be discovered with Esca still enslaved and helpless to stop all that would happen.

Countless times Marcus opened his mouth to somehow cleverly ascertain his Uncle’s reaction to the truth, but the words never marched out for fear of the wrong answers. A marsupial in a placental household aside, a child servant cost too much money to keep and tuck slaves sold for far too much—it mattered not if this woman was compassionate, for she managed her money sensibly.

..

..

..

Marcus lost the game against his uncle in a spectacular display of weak strategies, and he retired to his room, feeling cold to the bone and unable to look away from the future lying before him: when Esca would be sold, the child branded, sterilized, and eventually taken from him. Marcus undressed and climbed under his furs, still in denial, still hoping that he could think of something. Anything.

“I heard,” Esca said, the moment he was in the room with the door closed. He went instantly to the bedside and slid in under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus began, but in that breath Esca was crowding into him, a broad, rough palm on Marcus’ cheek, a tickle of breath on his chin. The kiss from the tuck was a warm press of lips, firm and sure and then it was over. “Thank you,” Esca said, not pulling away.

“For what?”

“It was a foolish, naive attempt for my freedom,” Esca said, laughing fondly, “Yet you tried anyway. I thought you were a good man, Marcus, but I did not think you could be so…” his voice trailed off, fingers caressing Marcus’ jaw. Marcus’ heart pounded, his hands reached and held and pulled the tuck in close. Esca came willingly and it made the soldier’s adrenaline blaze to life in his veins.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Marcus half panted, “Uncle has already sold you--“ his throat closed tightly. “She will find out and sell you.”

“Not until your leg is fully strong again, which means that if we don’t think of something, our secret will be blown well before I am taken to my new mistress…. The baby will be out and nursing in a matter of weeks.”

“I can buy a farm somewhere and convince them to let me keep you as a gift or something.”

Laughing, Esca settled on Marcus’ shoulder, “That will take months to a year.”

“We’ve gotten this far,” Marcus mumbled miserably. “Why is it that every time I find something that makes me happy, I can only have if for a short time before everything falls apart? The gods must hate me.”

Silence met this and then Esca’s lips pressed to Marcus’ neck as if to hide bashfully, “We make you happy?”

Embarrassed and far too hot-blooded, Marcus cleared his throat, “I have only ever gotten to admire tucks from afar. It has been a joy to watch so closely as you bring a child into the world. Even if you are a slave.”

Esca withdrew from Marcus’ hot-blooded space and then the bed altogether. “A slave,” he repeated in a dead tone.

“Wha--“

“I am just a slave to you,” now Marcus placed it as an angry tone.

“No--“ he started, astounded by the force of Esca’s anger and still not entirely sure what he had done wrong but instinctively trying to fix it. “No--I--“

“I stay here willingly and serve you in a _debt_ , Marcus. I am not owned by anyone. I may be a slave in Rome’s eyes, but I am not so in my heart,” here he laughed bitterly, dropping his face in his hand, “I thought you were more than the Rome you serve.”

“I did not mean to offend,” Marcus said, bewildered, “But, Esca… no one can be _more_ than Rome.”

Esca snorted.

Marcus lifted the furs, “You’ll freeze, my friend, please.”

Silently, Esca returned to the warm bed. Marcus breathed easier once his friend was next to him again, within arm’s reach, but before he could touch him, Esca studied Marcus’ face up close and shook his head, disappointed.

“You do not understand,” he said darkly. Then he turned away from Marcus to sleep.

Puzzling over the argument, Marcus could not close his eyes. _I thought you were more than the Rome you serve_. How could an individual be more than Rome? Rome was an intelligent, civilized domain of honor and courage and progress. One man could never be _more_ than an empire.

Then it occurred to Marcus with a dizzying halt to his breath.

How could he have been so arrogant and blind? Esca was the last of his people.

It was all so clear now. A single Briton could not win against Rome and so he no longer fought Rome, or what Rome would do. (Wars between countries could not exist when one country was dead. Wars for the good of a people were irrelevant when the people were dead.) Esca lived in a man-against-man struggle for his honor, taking only one opponent at a time.

Esca had even said it, he despised Rome and everything it stood for, but he would serve Marcus, the man who saved him, least he tarnish his own honor.

“Esca?” Marcus whispered into the dark. He dared not touch him. The tuck’s chest continued to lift and fall in the easy rhythm of sleep, so Marcus was bold enough to speak his heart as his heavy eyes slid closed at last, “If only you knew how often I think of you as an equal--I see in you a warrior spirit to match my own, or perhaps even to dwarf it. I… I believe that you are not a slave in your heart, and I have never wanted you to think of me as your master. I… I do not want you to think of yourself as alone... And, anyway, you have the baby now. A second member of your tribe… so...”

With his eyes closed, Marcus did not see Esca stop breathing, or lift his head to look back at him in surprise. Feeling like a fool that just broke the only good thing he had in his life, Marcus rolled to put his back to Esca and fell asleep.

..

..

..

It might have just been paranoia, but to Marcus’ knowing eye, Esca’s shape was altogether too telling. He did not carry his weight in the places fattened bed-slaves were supposed to carry it—his arms and legs remained as firm as ever; his face and waist had softened but only slightly and looked to be thinning again now that the child was ready to live outside the pouch.

They had not touched in the bed since Marcus’ blunder the week before, but to quell that disappointment was an exciting change to their secret practices. At night with low candles burning, Esca had begun to take the baby out of his pouch to let the joey stretch out in the warm furs between them.

The child now looked hardly different than any of the pink-faced infants Marcus had glimpsed in the market or at the theatre, only he was younger and unaccustomed to open space. He was unhappy to be separated from his tuck-father in the beginning, and learned to fuss straight away—shaking and squirming as if in pain, emitting almost nothing but soft suckling noises, then grunts and coughs, (nothing that could be heard outside of the room, hardly even the bed).

At first it was only minutes at a time, but the child’s tolerance to the outside environment grew to the point that he fussed when tucked back away in the morning. Marcus often watched from the corner of his eye as Esca took a moment after dressing to hold his bulge and swing his stomach to and fro in a gentle dance, accompanied with a song he had taken to singing idly as he worked (to mask the muffled sounds under his tunic.)

Nightly Marcus watched by candlelight as the naked babe stretched his curled legs after a long day hidden away, and threw his arms around freely at last, making more sounds of general content and wonder with this fascinating, furry world outside of the pouch.

A soft chuckle fell out of the Roman at a funny thought. “I wonder if he knows there is more to the outside of you than this warm bed.”

Esca grinned, letting a strong little hand close around his fingertip. Then the happy expression faded. “I have something to tell you, Marcus.”

Suddenly more awake, Marcus shifted around, careful not to roll onto the baby. “You sound frightened.”

“When you first discovered the egg, you said you would help me escape from here. Will you hold that promise for us, Marcus?”

Stunned, Marcus could not speak. The _abdo_ sighed, deeply troubled, and dragged his baby to his chest. He blew out the candle and in the dark, Marcus could no longer see, but he knew that Esca has traded the little tuck’s fist for a breast. Hungry suckling noises assaulted Marcus’ ear. “Y-you’re leaving,” he made sure it didn’t sound like a question, or any kind of plea.

“We cannot stay here a day longer. Better to leave from this house with your help than to leave hers with no one on my side. His voice has grown strong, mine does not cover it, and he has all but completely outgrown the pouch. It is uncomfortable, we both dread it.”

“I…” Marcus was trying to think. He was trying to plan. All that he heard was the baby thriving and Esca’s panicked breathing and the smothering silence that would reign when Marcus lived in this room alone once more. “Where will you go?”

“I would not tell you even if I knew,” Esca said. “Trust me, Marcus. I don’t want to leave this house. It is a good house. Warm and happy…but it is not safe. Not for him. Not any longer.”

“You are right,” the admission stole his breath and made his heart pound, mind race. “I have money—we must sneak you enough food to last for a few days, until you are in a market where you will not be recognized. After that…you can never stay in one place for long. But once you are across the channel, it will be easier, I think, but honest work will be hard to find.”

“Money and shelter for him is all I need. I will work in a whore house if it gives us money for our own bed.”

“Esca,” Marcus said, in pain. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for his treasured friend, holding his waist and feeling the baby’s feet kick his arm. His throat was closing. “I will miss you both so much.”

“I do not want to leave you. I swore I would not—“

“Your duty is to him, Esca,” Marcus demanded firmly. “Serve me by him.”

The _abdo’s_ chest swelled under his hand and Marcus’ face was caressed by a familiar rough palm. “We will miss you too,” Esca whispered into the dark.


	6. Six

The next morning, Marcus woke utterly alone. He sat up, throwing the furs to the floor.

“Esca,” he breathed, heart clanging. The slave was surely gone--it would have been smartest to slip away before dawn, after Marcus had fallen to sleep and before the rest of the house woke. Marcus ripped open the trunk and was surprised to find his money bag where he left it as full as it ever was.

He was confused until the door opened and Esca stepped into the room, cradling his pot-belly. He looked almost sheepish as he announced softly, “I did not have the nerve to leave when I should have…”

“Esca,” it sounded relieved, but Marcus pretended it sounded like the reprimand he’d intended it to be. He stood and put his fists to his hips, kept his voice a hiss. “You have said yourself to stay means going to another household. It endangers you both! If you are caught--for lying, she might sell you separately just for spite!”

The tuck nodded, chewing on his lip. “Tonight, then. We will go. I should have this morning, only I needed a few more hours to plan my way, to _think_ …” he sat abruptly on the bed and cradled his head momentarily. “The way will not be easy in any direction.”

“You are only nervous. Remember you are a warrior. For him, you can do whatever you must.”

“For him,” Esca repeated.                           

::

::

::

More politicians arrived in time for dinner, none of them, thankfully, Esca’s former owner. It was an easier evening, for Uncle was friends with these ones and happy to talk about all manner of things beyond the current election. Interestingly enough, the old senator had brought along an _abdo_ companion who had been given an impressive rank in society despite his perfectly average beginning.

Marcus found himself significantly less captured by this stranger than he had been by the one at the games. After getting to know an _abdo_ personally, he could not be enthralled by just any child-bearing man. Indeed, a Roman tuck’s soft delicacy and spoiled nature was all of the sudden frightfully boring.

Placidus proved the best and worst of the Roman custom to pamper child-bearing men; his snide voice grated on Marcus’ nerves, along with his superior attitude and effeminate nature.

“Ah, yes. I was wondering why you did not keep a sterilized tuck, what with your interests. But that is not affordable on a centurion’s salary,” the fat senator said conversationally to Uncle, who grunted with agreement like they were talking about diamond goblets or something and not about his own sordid preference to bed men against the Empire’s custom.

Unable to control himself, Marcus grinned up at Esca as the tuck poured more wine. With a significant sideways look at him, Esca warned him to stop. Then, from beneath his baggy tunic, there was a warbling little cry.

Esca spilled the drink in alarm—but Marcus immediately feigned choking and began hacking and coughing so loudly that there was no concern for the wasted wine. All turned to Marcus in fear, tried to help. If they had heard the strange, unexplained noise they did not act like it. Marcus continued to fake it until Esca slipped unnoticed out of the room.

“Are you alright, Nephew?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marcus wheezed, accepting the man’s cup of wine. He sipped it. Stephanos arrived to clean up the mess that Esca had made. Marcus’ heart was racing, and he kept clearing his throat. That was close. Too close.

…

…

…

A solution presented itself but one hour later.

“You cannot go across the wall, you would not survive one day out there alone.”

“I will take Esca,” Marcus said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “He knows the language.”

Uncle did not look at all pleased with the idea. “Esca? Esca is a _slave_.” Uncle’s voice was uncharacteristically hard and the word was stressed as if he wished to remind him, and maybe he was thinking of how Marcus had tried to free his bed slave. Maybe he was thinking that Esca had been whispering to him at night, filling his head with ideas to free him and making him think they were his own. “He may not be from north of the wall, but he is a _Briton_. He does what he does and says what he says because he has to.”

Marcus could not lift his eyes from the floor right at first, too alarmed by his own instinct to scream at his uncle that Esca was not a slave. He found the nerve to meet the man’s eye after he sank into the resolve to end all his miseries at once. He would take Esca beyond the wall, he would find the eagle: his honor would be restored and his friends would be freed as they should have been. (He did not allow himself to consider how far away their freedom would be from his own.)

“I am going, Uncle. For our honor.”

..

..

..

In his bedroom, Marcus was ambushed. The moment the door was closed, Esca was in his personal space. Going onto his toes, Esca hung on Marcus’ neck, whole body flush with his, soft lips crushing against Marcus’ mouth. For a bewildered second, Marcus didn’t react, but then his wits caught up and instinct kicked into a full out, breathless run. His big hands slid down Esca’s perfect back to grip his round bottom, pulling him even closer and that was when he realized there wasn’t a bulge between them.

Breaking the kiss loudly, Marcus looked all about the room, “Where is--oh,” he stopped the question when he saw the baby nestled, once again, safely in the open trunk; tucked warmly in a spare fur and sound asleep.

Esca put a finger to his swollen lips. “I just got him to sleep. We will have to be quiet.”

Something solid in Marcus’ throat didn’t let him ask questions, but it sounded like Esca was planning--

The tuck dragged Marcus to the bed by the hand and laid back on the furs before him, moving seductively, a glint in his eye for Marcus, hands fluidly removing clothing.

“This is sudden,” Marcus could not help but point out as he climbed over Esca and started to lose his own clothes. Instead of an answer, he got an entire mouth over his and two hands holding the back of his neck to keep him locked in the kiss. All words broke up and faded away in Marcus’ head and he kissed back fervently, so ready to have sex after so long without and more than ready to have it with Esca.

Suddenly, their lips broke--not too far apart, just enough for Esca to murmur between snatched kisses, “You keep doing it, Marcus.” He kissed his bottom lip, and then the top, “Just when I think there is no hope,” His warm breath tickled as he feathered lighter kisses to his chin, “you save me. Going north of the wall--“ he laughed, and kissed him again, and again, and a then their lips parted and their tongues touched for an unrelenting kiss, “hm, it’s so perfect, just what we need.” The second deep kiss sent shivers up Marcus' spine, “and I want you to know what it means to me--oh, _yes_ ,” he rolled his head back because Marcus had started to grind their swelling cocks together.

Marcus pushed his hands under Esca’s tunic and within a moment, it was up, over his head and exposing pale, peeked breasts, small and firm in his hands. Chest hair had fallen out weeks ago, and the skin was soft, smooth and pliant under Marcus’ mouth.

Every movement Esca made against Marcus’ body was faultless, every stifled sound he gasped utter perfection. It was just as Marcus had imagined--the beauty, the strength, _the battle scars_. There were plenty, some obviously from battle, others more ambiguous and intriguing. Esca smirked when he realized Marcus’ interest in the marks, but he did not have the breath to offer explanation at the moment. When Marcus explored the lip of the soft pouch Esca shivered and his arousal seeped and it was all Marcus could do to stay composed long enough to make an impression on him.

Esca opened for him and took him in and Marcus moved feverishly. From there, the night would be remembered in dizzying fragments: slamming deep into tight heat, Esca’s fingernails biting into the flesh of his ass, Esca’s knees drawn up to his shoulders, breasts bouncing between them, his ear lobe between Esca’s teeth, milk trickling from a peeked nipple, a finger slipping into the crevice of his ass, the sputtered eruption of Esca’s cock in his fist, choked Galiec words, an intense, blistering rip of pleasure from the base of his spine forward and out through the itch at the head of his cock, and then breasts pillowing his head (must have been sweat stinging his eyes) fingers pulling through his hair, sleep weighing heavily.

..

..

..

As Marcus and Esca prepared to leave, Uncle announced he had spoken with the neighbor that was to be Esca's new mistress and had returned her payment. _I can not in good conscious accept her payment for a slave that will kill you and run,_  he'd said solemnly to Marcus. He plead one more time for his nephew to abandon the mission, but Marcus would not hear it. The good news of Esca reamining in the house of Aquila only bouyed his high spirits brought on by a night of passion and his mission of honor. Resolved, he and Esca had left before dawn.

Now it was warm in the sunlight, the roads were good, and whenever Esca’s horse got a little ahead of Marcus, his eyes inevitably fell down to the tuck’s thighs straddling the horse, his hips moving with the pace of the beast, and Marcus would have to role his lips between his teeth to stop from smiling stupidly big at the memory of the night before, pressing into Esca and Esca pressing back with his arms curling under Marcus’ and back up over his shoulders to hold him closer, meet his eye and-- _smile_.

A sound--a little grunting cough--broke Marcus from the memory, and he realized that Esca had his tunic drawn up to his chest, pouch showing, and the baby’s head sticking out to watch the world through the horse’s ears.

“The wind isn’t too cool for him?” Marcus worried, drawing his horse up right beside Esca, so close their legs brushed.

“He just wants a peek,” Esca reassured, fingers softly brushing his joey’s little head. His voice changed into something sweeter and perpetually proud, “Daye sat up and looked out all by himself; that’s right, he did.” He murmured more to the infant in his native tongue.

“Daye?” Marcus asked eagerly. “So you decided on a name?”

As the baby had lain kicking between them in the furs, Esca had tried on different ones and immediately dismissed them. The one time Marcus had given some ideas, Esca had only snorted and vowed his child would not have a bulky, overly long and pompous name like all Romans did.

Oh, how it had made Marcus shiver when Esca had finished the half-veiled insult by rolling his name-- _Marcus Flavius Aquila_ \-- off his tongue in a whisper into the warm darkness between them…

“I did. He is Daye mac Esca.”

“A suitably strong yet beautiful name for a tuck.”

Esca smiled at Marcus and it was so like the smile he’d given over his bouncing breasts, when their eyes had met while Marcus moved half delirious in him, that Marcus wanted to lean over and kiss him.

Esca gently lowered his tunic back down over the bare, vulnerable head of his joey and they rode on in silence.

..

..

..

“Will you be warm enough?” Marcus asked. They had stopped for shelter from rain in an inn, and Hadrian’s Wall was close; this would be the last time they had a warm, dry place with a bed in which to sleep.

Esca had been pacing as Daye suckled at a breast and Marcus had been watching unashamedly, but now the mound of flesh was going back from sight because Daye had dropped to sleep.

Marcus had gotten into bed and had become suddenly worried that Esca meant to sleep on the fur cloak where he had been stretched out comfortably on a wooden chest against the wall with Daye on his shoulder. Upon Marcus’ question, the smile that the Briton gave Marcus looked exactly like how he sounded whenever he called Marcus an idiot, affectionate and amused.

Without a word, Esca stripped down to his braccae, and he and Daye joined Marcus in the bed, the infant going right between them with Marcus’ arm over Esca’s waist, as always. Marcus was smiling and could not stop, wanted to kiss Esca so badly the arches of his feet were tingling. But Esca did not seem to want to be kissed. He lazily pushed his fingertips in circles around Marcus’ extended elbow and broke the silence.

“What you are doing is very dangerous, Marcus.”

“Hm?” he was not exactly sure what Esca was talking about, as his mind wasn’t anywhere near his reckless mission to rescue a forgotten relic of Rome.

“They’ll kill you the moment they suspect you are as Roman as you look.”

“They can try,” Marcus said. “I have only lost one fight in my life and it was against an out of control chariot.”

Esca laughed and his hand trailed down to Marcus’ thigh questioningly, “How is it? Do I need to see to it?”

Marcus shook his head, whispered, “Let’s not move from how we are.”

Esca’s hand retired to Marcus’ waist, a hum of agreement that sounded like it came through a fierce yawn. The tuck must be exhausted carrying a baby on horseback for such a long journey. Daye grunted in his sleep and then a moment later sneezed and the adults chortled fondly and turned their attention on the tiny little life between them.

“He will be the most at risk,” Marcus said, blood running cold at the thought of his idiotic idea getting this beautiful, harmless little life taken from the world.

“He is a Brigantes tuck; they will adopt him before they harm him.”

“And you’ll be okay with that?”

“They will give him high honors and a good life free of Rome; but it tears at my heart to think of him never knowing me or my love for him.”

“He knows,” Marcus assured instantly, “His whole world is nothing but you and your love.”

“I would die for him in a moment, no hesitation; it is a powerful and frightening feeling, because even knowing this I do not _want_ to die.”

“Your selfless honor has always been my favorite thing about you, _amatus abdo_.”

Upon the term of endearment for beloved tucks, Esca made a noise in his throat which Marcus could not decipher and in the silence that followed, Marcus suddenly felt like a fool.

What if the night before, Esca had been acting in nothing but lust?

 _We were not as close as lovers_ , the memory of Esca’s remark about the child’s father punched Marcus in the gut.

And here Marcus had been imagining that everything was new and better now, believing he could seek such pleasures with this tuck as frequently as he pleased … believing that Esca loved him back…

He cleared his throat, shifted about, and rested. Daye gurgled and began whimpering. Esca shifted, sniffed the air, and murmured, “he needs a change,” and just like that, tuck and baby were out of the bed. As the Briton changed the baby’s soiled cloths, Marcus rolled on his side, and--wishing his foolishness undone--managed to breathe evenly enough that he was believed to be asleep before Esca returned to the bed.

..

..

..

At midday next, they arrived at the nearest gate in the Wall. There were fat, lazy guards posted there, picking their teeth with bones and sleeping in the sun. They looked very disgruntled to be bothered.

“Hasn’t anyone told you this is the end of the world?” one guard asked.

Marcus leveled the soldier with a superior look. “Open the gate.”

When Esca likewise failed to offer any explanation for their journey, the soldiers gave up and opened the way with smirks on their faces.

The heavy barricade swung wide, and Marcus swallowed nervously as he urged the horse beyond the wall. Esca followed closely. Behind them, the guard shook his head and closed the gate, threw the heavy lock. The sound echoed with permanence, and Marcus wondered for the first time if he would ever even make it back, if everyone had been right to say that he was riding off to his death.

There was nothing out there but rolling hills, empty sky, and dry wind. He gripped the reigns nervously, then Esca spoke.

“Look at it, Daye,” he said to the child who was peeking out again. Esca’s face was softened and his voice was secret. “Freedom, my love. This is where we belong.”

Something constricted in Marcus’ chest, but when Esca glanced at him, he forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile. Marcus had woken that morning and immediately remembered his error in thought, the revelation from the night before; his naïve heart’s blind leap into what was impossible.

The disillusionment was reinforced when Esca leveled a stone hard look at him and warned that Marcus had better not “behave as a mindless Roman and get us killed. I mean it, my friend. Think before you so much as _speak_. I know it is hard for you, but you must try.”

Marcus had laughed, half sensing the teasing mood in his friend, but also understanding the subtext, the request for Marcus to never again go addressing him in lovingly possessive Latin words.

Such a blow felt crippling, yet Marcus had surprised himself with staying upright, and maintaining a familiar enough attitude towards the Briton he would now only ever know as a firm friend.

He tried to remember to be happy for his tuck friends, and reminded himself that even if he failed to recover the eagle, he had at least succeeded in saving them; a family; _a people_.

“Let us put Rome out of sight before we make camp,” Esca said excitedly kicking the horse back into motion.


	7. Seven

They met a few Britons.

At first, the band of warriors and the two riders faced one another warily, weapons in easy reach, but then Daye made a sound from Esca’s pouch and when he cradled the babe, the tribesmen instantly lost their tense stances and moved forward with cheerful words in their native tongue, which Esca responded to in kind and lifted his shirt to show the baby. The Britons spoke excitedly.

“Marcus!” Esca whispered with light in his eyes, “They are marsupial!” he swung down from his horse and moved among them with Daye exposed for viewing. From there, Marcus found himself watching what seemed to be a union of strangers joyous to finally meet. Hands clasped, palms slapped backs, foreheads touched.

By evening they reached the place where these people made their village. The rest of the tribe seemed as indifferent to Marcus as the band of warriors that first met them had been, their grey eyes looking almost right through him, but upon meeting Esca, they, too, smiled and even gave the tuck a cloak of fur and his own hut, and everyone got a turn holding Daye, putting their foreheads to his with joyful laughter, and that night there was a big fire and good food.

“Be at ease, Marcus,” Esca insisted, tugging him to sit down by the fire. “You have no enemies here.”

“But I am Roman. I was made to believe they would kill me just for that.”

“They were curious of your business here, but I have convinced them you are here because you have turned your back on Rome.”

Marcus’ cheeks flared red, “What?”

With a motion of his hand, Esca bade Marcus to conceal his ire. Others nearby gave Marcus sharp looks for his loud, rough response, and he grit his teeth.

“Your loyalty to Rome is what will get you killed, Marcus, not your heritage.”

“Is that any reason for me to abandon it?” he spat. “I will not, because I am not a coward!”

“I never said you were!” Esca snapped, a weary roll of his eyes and a grumble in Gaelic, “By the gods, Marcus, stop taking everything as a slight to your family’s honor.” He stalked off. Marcus sat alone, brooding. No one attempted to speak to him, content to ignore him so long as he made no trouble. He fell asleep there by the fire.

By morning, Esca had befriended a woman among them named Cottia, who had a baby the same age as Daye. Her hair was the color of fire, and her eyes were as green as a spring meadow. As far as Marcus could tell, she did not have a husband. Esca explained later that the man had died in a battle before the child was born. She was a kind woman, who gave Marcus broad smiles and sometimes touched his arm as she tried to make him understand her words. From her he learned but a few: Hello. Baby. Food. Goodbye.

Quickly, the simplicity of life in the wild charmed the Roman. Here in this rough wilderness, everyone had to do their fair share of hard work just to carve out a living, so he began to see the beauty of this life away from the advancements of Rome. It was not comfortable, but it was honorable. Had he, all this time, mistaken comfort for honor?

The way these people treated tucks and mixed bloods fascinated the Roman. The tucks they respected as natural leaders and the mixed bloods were revered as vessels of hope.

He did not sleep with Esca again. In fact, Marcus began to feel as if Cottia had replaced him because Esca spent so much time with her, laughing and chatting in Gaelic, and they nursed each other’s babies, and once or twice Marcus had to sleep alone because Esca slept in the same bed with Cottia, their children between them, the same as Esca and Marcus used to do with Daye.

It hurt. It hurt worse than death, and the misery from Marcus’ life before returned worse than ever. His nightmares increased in frequency and intensity.

Screaming himself awake, Marcus sat in the dying light of the kitchen embers, trying to catch his breath. In the corner with the woman and children, Esca slept on, indifferent to his nightmares. Compounding his misery, the memory of the Briton once comforting him in times like this felt like a lifetime ago, literally part of a different world, with real beds, and strong walls, and table manners.

Marcus did not belong here. He got to his feet stiffly, and began to gather his belongings. When the first rays of light appeared in the sky, one of the children began to fuss, and the Britons woke. With soft words, Esca bid Cottia back to sleep and began nursing both children.

“Good morning, Marcus,” he said, with a little yawn as he stripped away his shirt. The babies latched onto his chest hungrily, and Marcus could not bear to look at the beautiful sight. To do so would only weaken his resolve to leave this place.

He continued to pack.

“What are you doing?” Esca asked, finally realizing that Marcus was not simply preparing for another day in the village.

“I have to return to Rome,” he said thickly. “It is the will of Mithras. My dreams have not changed but for the intensity of the horrors. I must find the Eagle.”

“Marcus,” Esca said, voice little. He could not stand with both children in hand and sat helpless in the warm corner of the hut. “Stop. Slow down. I have to go with you.”

“No you do not. It is not your destiny.”

“Marcus I swore never to abandon you. I owe you two life debts! It would diminish my honor if I let you ride north and get yourself killed.”

“What of Daye? It is too dangerous for him.”

“Then he will stay with his new tribe.”

Marcus huffed. “You would leave him behind?”

The tuck’s throat clicked and he said nothing, gazing down at the sweet, sleepy face of his child. Though he could not see from where he stood in the dim light of dawn, Marcus knew from the silence that tears were thick in the Briton’s eyes.

“You have found a good life here, Esca. A fine woman, too. I am useless here.”

A soft snort from the tuck made Marcus reconsider his statement. Had he been wrong? He glanced at the corner, and saw Esca putting the children back to bed, stroking the woman’s slender waist with more of those soft Gaelic words. She stirred, sat up and smiled, nodding her head.

Esca kissed her forehead, and then stood to his full height, knee joint popping loudly. He stepped barefoot across the hut to Marcus’ side. “You have it all wrong, Marcus. It isn’t how you think.”

“What isn’t?”

Pausing, Esca waited while Cottia shuffled around, donning her shoes and tying the children to her. Marcus’ brow creased with confusion. There was no need for her to take the babies with her into the wheat fields today, unless Esca was also leaving.

“I thought…”

Esca smiled up at him, waiting, forcing the painful words past Marcus’ heavy tongue. “I thought she had become your wife. The way you two care for the boys…”

“No, Marcus, no…she has joined my family in another way entirely. We have decided that her son is to be my son’s shield bearer. They are to grow up together. Hopefully, one day wed. That is all.”

Relief so potent it made his knees weak, Marcus leaned against the table. “Oh…so you have not…?”

With a shake of his bed-ruffled head, the Briton smiled with bright eyes. “I have remained true to you, dear Roman,” he smirked, looking down at his own bare chest. “I hope I am still your amatus abdo.”

“You--You didn’t seem to like it when I said it.”

“Marcus, I had never been so honored,” Esca breathed. Cottia slipped out past them with her customary morning greeting to Marcus, who returned it thickly, unable to draw breath. The world felt like it might be tipping over.

“Then why have you been so indifferent towards me?” he asked, finding an edge in his words. If what Esca said was true, then there had been no reason to make him sleep alone in the cold corner.

“Because of the tribe,” Esca said. “I had to gain their trust as soon as possible, for the sake of Daye’s safety. If they knew I would do anything a Roman asked of me, they would not have been so quick to welcome me or my child.”

“You have made Daye a home where he will be safe. That is most important,” Marcus agreed. The tuck moved closer to him, only a few inches, but the most important inches, the difference between brothers and lovers. His rough hand was warm against Marcus’ face. “Did I hurt you? I should have explained myself.”

“I thought I lost you,” Marcus choked.

“Never,” Esca whispered, moving in closer, “Oh, Marcus, I am yours.”

Kissing softly, slowly, Marcus gently cupped the breasts that would soon disappear. The tuck removed his belt and tunic, and the feeling of soft breast against his naked chest made Marcus’ heart clamor, and already it was so full of emotion that he felt sick with love.

Hot and hard, he bucked into Esca’s arousal, and the tuck grinded back. Gasping from the pleasure of it, they collapsed together on Marcus’ cold bedroll and continued to rut their clothed erections against one another, harder and faster until their breaths were shortened and their voices broke with frustrated desperation.

Once or twice, Marcus rasped Esca’s name. The tuck pulled at Marcus’ hair and said things in Gaelic that sounded like pleas, and then Marcus broke with a shudder. The pathetic noise of ecstasy that escaped his throat made the Briton laugh but it came out a whine as he too spilled his seed.

Marcus rested on the sweat of Esca’s breasts, sated enough to no longer feel lovesick, for the feelings in his heart need not be kept hidden away anymore. He closed his eyes, enjoying the pull of Esca’s fingers through his hair.

“I can help you, Marcus,” his lover said, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“I am ashamed to have kept it from you for so long, but--I think I know where we can find your eagle.”

This took a moment to sink in. Marcus pulled away and sat up with a frown.

“My tribe was among those that rose against your father’s legion. I know where they fought. It--it’s sacred ground. To me and my people, it is a place of heroes.”

“ _What_? You’ve known all along?”

“I did not say anything, because at first I believed your quest for the eagle was only an excuse to get us to safety. And then when I knew your true intentions, I could not tell you, because I knew you would not wait, you would go straight there, and I would not be able to follow you to keep you safe, because I had Daye to think of. I had to find a place for him first. I had to find him a tribe before I went with you and risked our lives. Do you understand?”

Pacing half naked across the hut, Marcus paused and looked at a wooden toy that had been presented to Daye on his first day in the village. His anger fell away because even after a lifetime of striving to correct the shame of Aquila, not even his family’s honor was worth more than that child’s life. He allowed a long silence to stretch out and finally he asked, “Where is it?”

“The Seal People have it.”

“The Seal People?”

“A vast and cruel tribe in the highlands, vicious warriors, so much so they have no allies here… it would be difficult for any man to cross them and win, even with a Roman Legion at his back. I cannot imagine the two of us could survive.”

“You mean to say it’s a lost cause, and I should just stay here and play savage with you?”

Stricken, Esca rose from the bed with anger flashing in his eyes, “I understand the importance your father’s death holds with you, but do not slight my people.”

Ashamed, Marcus turned away, reaching for his clothes, “You’re right, I will not wait another day. I must take back my father’s honor.”

“Even if it means certain death?”

“Especially then,” Marcus whispered.

Esca cursed him in Gaelic; Marcus did not need to understand the words to understand their meaning. But even as he grumbled he got out of bed and began dressing, “I trust you could at least wait long enough for me to say my last goodbyes to Daye?”

All at once it was clear in Marcus’ head, “No,” he said, “You aren’t coming. Stay with your tribe.”

Esca harrumphed, “I’m going.”

“ _No_ , you aren’t,” Marcus returned through gritted teeth. Fortified by Esca’s love for him, he felt he had the strength to survive this endeavor alone. Then he could return to Esca and the child an honorable man.

“Without me you don’t stand a single chance of surviving. My father was Chief Cunoval, I’m a tuck, and I speak their language. Surely they will honor me.”

“And what of me?”

The Briton’s shoulder jumped, “You’ll be my slave.”

Marcus laughed outright. He was only a full head and shoulder taller than Esca and almost twice his weight in muscle.

“Do you want your precious eagle or not?” Esca countered, wriggling into his tunic. Marcus dressed swiftly, jaw set tightly in his disapproval of such a reckless plan. He did not like the idea of Daye being parted from his only parent—all that he had done since meeting Esca had been to prevent such a fate for the boy.

Outside the hut, dawn had given way to a weak morning. The air smelled like rain, and the villagers hurried to finish their outside chores before the weather broke. With both their things packed and on their backs, Marcus led the horses and he followed Esca, as annoyed as the Briton and unwilling to speak else it become a fight.

They found Cottia with a large basket already half filled with grain, singing beautifully to the children that turned her slender silhouette into a lumpy beast. The wind had picked up her hair, and when she turned, the morning light shone on her melancholy smile.

She spoke to Esca, green eyes flicking to Marcus and back. Esca nodded tightly, body tensed. From the left baby-bump, she hefted Daye out into the light. His naked little body looked fatter and bigger than yesterday—he truly was growing so fast.

Emotions closed Marcus’ throat and he looked away quickly. His heart beat with painful throbs; he had not anticipated how difficult it would be to actually say his goodbyes to this miraculous little life. He had not been away from this child a day of his entire life. Marcus’ fingers started shaking and he pushed at his lips, paced away a little and then came back.

Tears running freely down his face, Esca hugged his son tightly, whispering tight words of Gaelic, kissing his soft head and face and little hands. Then, all at once, Cottia took the child from him and dumped Daye into Marcus’ hands.

“No,” he said, even as he instinctually cradled the boy to his heart. He could feel hot tears sliding down his nose. “I can’t…” he gulped, and fell quiet, just looking into Daye’s deep blue eyes, his perfectly round little face, pink from the chilly morning air. He gently stroked one soft cheek, feeling his heart break at the thought that should he, by the will of Mithras, actually return to this village, the boy would have grown; could be walking and maybe even talking. And Marcus will have missed it all.

And of course, if he died, he would then miss everything. If this quest killed Marcus, then he would never see this child as a young man, he would never see Daye grow to love his shield bearer, or have his own eggs. A firm resolve to make it back settled like a stone in his gut.

“By Mithras, I will return, sweet one,” he promised solemnly.

Esca gripped his elbow tightly, sobbing openly. Cottia took Daye from Marcus as promptly as she had Esca; just as well, for Marcus could not have handed him away for good. The woman held Daye on a hip, and gave them both a smile that said a thousand words. She wished them luck, she bid them hurry, and she promised to look after Daye no matter what.

With a bow of gratitude, Marcus pivoted sharply on his heel and mounted the horse. Esca swung into his saddle but a moment later, and they turned north. Esca called back words of goodbye that were heavy with heartache and promise. Marcus reached and clutched Esca’s shoulder tightly in a silent plea for him to stop. It hurt too much to listen to.

“You will see him again, Esca. I swear it.”

..

..

..

The savages of the north were filthier than Esca’s people. They wore mud and bones, and were brutal to those perceived as weaker than themselves. Esca’s plan to present Marcus as his Roman slave gave him an intimate look at the lives of the oppressed. With his pronounced limp, some fantastic tale of how Esca had hobbled him, and the cultural belief that all tucks were the fiercest of warriors, no one questioned that he was a slave. Marcus was beaten and belittled and ignored by Esca for four days before the savages presented the Eagle in their ceremonious rituals.

One harrowing battle later, and Marcus and Esca fled the north as hard and fast as they could. Wounded in his bad leg, Marcus feared he would not make it, but with Esca’s steadfast aid and the miracle return of the last of the Ninth Legion, the Eagle was won. The cost of victory was great. Standing over the funeral pyre of the fallen soldiers, Marcus could not believe that he had survived against those odds. He could not help but wonder why he had been spared, allowed to return with Esca to Daye’s side, while so many native children would never see their fathers again….

He placed the eagle pendant on the pyre, finally able to put the pain of losing his father to rest. Should Esca wish it, he would be Daye’s father, and the curse of Aquila will be over. Marcus now knew the story of his father’s noble death, his family honor was fully restored, and it was, finally, time to go home.

Eager to get back to his son, Esca insisted they ride through the last night of their journey. The full moon and shining stars cast enough light for the tired horse to see its way, and for an exhausted Marcus to admire the creamy skin of Esca’s neck glowing like a pearl.

They returned to the village at the same hour of day as they had left it. Cottia was even in the field again, still gathering grain. But she did not have the children with her. With a shout, Esca drew her attention. She cried out in happiness, dropping the basket and running to greet their horse. Her smile was bright, her words fast and joyous. Esca repeated his son’s name several times before a young girl of about thirteen came running with the boy on her hip.

“DAYE!” Esca cried, leaping from the horse. Marcus lowered himself to the ground more carefully, for his leg had not yet healed, and as Esca and Daye cried in each other’s arms, the tuck laughing and praising the sky, Cottia put a soft hand on Marcus’ injury with an inquiry that he waved aside.

“I shall be fine in a few days,” he promised. She understood his assuring tone, and smiled warmly before throwing her arms around him in a tight welcoming hug. When she released him, Esca was close, and Marcus could not help himself. He took the baby out of Esca’s arms.

As he had feared, Daye had grown a little in his absence, but as it had barely been two weeks since their departure, the difference was small compared to what it could have been. Marcus measured his arms and legs and fatness, marveling at the tuft of dark hair that had thickened on the crown of his head; the greatest difference. He pressed his lips to the silky hair and held the boy close.

Esca, understandably, could not fully release Daye, and kept a hand on his warm little back the entire time Marcus doted on him. The child was crying, loudly, burying his face in Marcus’ shoulder as he had done Esca.

“I do not think he has missed us until this moment,” Esca choked, smearing the tears on his face and kissing Daye with softly uttered assurances. Marcus chuckled. “Probably not. I hope we have not scared him too greatly with the vacation.”

The villagers all around spoke question after question, which only Esca could answer. He presented the Eagle to them all, and Marcus was given respectful arm shakes, touches to his forehead, kisses from beautiful girls and strong handsome tucks.

Growing somber, Esca announced to the Britons that the Eagle had to be returned to Rome, that it was far too dangerous to keep it here, for it would surely bring the wrath of the Seal People upon them. So without even a feast, they said goodbye to the wonderful people who had sheltered Daye for them.

“I am so sorry,” Esca told Cottia first in Latin and then in Gaelic. He held the woman’s hand, spoke intimately with her for a few moments, and then said goodbye to her son with a few tears. “I wish that my son had the honor of your son’s loyalty. But he belongs with me, and I belong with Marcus, and Marcus belongs in Rome.”

Nodding, Cottia kissed Esca on the lips, then kissed Marcus, then kissed Daye, and waved goodbye to them all.

..

..

..

“What now?” Esca asked with Daye on one hip as they left the senate behind.

“You decide,” Marcus replied, taking Daye when the child reached for him. He tossed the little guy up in the air, making him squeal. “If you want to return to your new tribe, I would be honored to join you. I only need to write a letter to my uncle before we go.”

“You would leave Rome?” Esca asked, incredulous. “You would live as a savage?”

“I would live as your faithful partner,” Marcus corrected, “And Daye’s father. If the two of you will have me, of course.”

Esca stopped walking abruptly.

“Esca?”

Starry eyed, Esca grinned up at him, “A room, Marcus.”

“Hm?”

“A room, that’s what I want to do next. Find us a room. With a bed.”

Marcus laughed, Daye slumped against his collar bone with a little yawn so sweet Marcus could die. He patted the impossibly small back under his hand and beamed at his lover, “I was speaking a little more long term.”

“A bed,” Esca repeated with a wicked grin and a surprisingly out of breath tone, “Now. Nothing else matters.”

Marcus sighed playfully with a look at the babe in his arms, “Alright. But only because Daye seems to need a nap.” He winked at Esca who beamed up at him. After inquiring directions from a man standing in a shop door, they made their way down the street toward the nearest Inn.

The Roman did not realize how carefully Esca moved as they made their way up the stairs to their room. Daye did not stir when Marcus placed him gently in a drawer of linen and turned to find Esca already on the bed, shallow breathing and intense eyes. Marcus joined him on the furs, kissing him fiercely, heart hammering away and his clothes rushed over his skin and into the floor.

He was oiled up and had two fingers in before he realized this wasn’t what he thought it was. He thought they were having sex, but Esca had something far greater in mind. Marcus learned the secret when the pad of his finger nudged something he hadn’t felt before. He pulled his lips from Esca’s with a questioning sound and before he could nudge again, Esca grabbed his wrist, “Careful, my love, we must be gentle with it.”

Marcus’ brows met, his aroused brain sluggish to catch up, “With what?”

Esca’s laugh was breathy and musical, “That’s our egg, Marcus. You’re helping me lay it.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Marcus removed his fingers from Esca’s body, “Egg?”

“I’ve known it was on the way since we were among the Seal People. It was our night together, Marcus, before we left your uncle’s house. You made me with child. And in the street just now, I felt it drop. I knew the pains would be close after so I demanded a bed.”

“You’re laying an egg?”

Esca nodded.

“My egg?”

Esca nodded again, his laugh now sounding wet. He clutched Marcus, a sharp pain evidently wracking his body, “We must be quick. It’s coming. Stretch me before it tears me.”

Marcus shakily obeyed, easing his slick finger in so gently that Esca scoffed and bade him to be firmer else he would be leaving the egg to do all the stretching. Marcus’s vision blurred as he worked three and then _four_ fingers into Esca’s willing body and the egg descended further down to kiss the tips of his fingers as he worked. It was coming!

“Marcus,” Esca breathed, a pleasured sigh and only then did the Roman realize he was accidently hitting the sensitive spot, and that as a result, Esca’s cock was hard and leaking against his pouch.

“You’re--“ he started, dumbly, but Esca kissed him with nipping teeth and a tugging hold on the hair at the back of his head.

“I love you, Marcus,” Esca breathed across Marcus’ mouth. “I love you forever.”

Their next kiss was broken when they both looked down because they felt the egg breach Esca’s body. The tuck hissed through the last of his pain and Marcus turned up his hand. His shelled baby dropped like a stone into his palm, warm and messy and everything he ever wanted.

They stared with labored breaths at what they had created. Marcus could sing, he could bow and praise Mithras for the rest of his life, and he could love Esca until it killed him. His tears splashed onto the soft, pale yellow egg in his hands. Esca’s hands cradled Marcus’ and helped him ease it to the bed without jostling it. He, too, had tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Well, I would say that’s one life debt squared,” Marcus said with a wet laugh and a sniff. Esca chuckled and slid carefully off the bed into the floor and reclined sensually there on the floorboards. His cock was still hard. “We shouldn’t waste a good stretch.”

Having been expecting sex, Marcus was still willing. He obsessively made sure the egg would be comfortable on the bed, and then joined Esca on the ground. They had not slept in a real bed yet, and to forfeit it now to an egg that would know no difference in a drawer next to its brother, Marcus smirked, but did not argue. Esca knew best, and if the tuck did not wish to move the egg yet, then there it would remain.

As they came together, Marcus could not believe the depth. He teased the sensitive spot thoroughly, thrilled by Esca’s hungry responses. The tuck had missed him too, had craved this as greatly as Marcus. The Briton came quickly, crying and laughing. And then Marcus changed his pace and angle to reach his end.

With an amazed and wanton sound, Esca pulled Marcus’ hand around to his pouch, tucked his fingers inside the warm, dry space. There, Marcus felt the head of his own penis bumping into his fingertips. After they had both finished, they lay in each other’s arms on the bare cool floor.

His dreams promised that he would grow to the age of white hair, with Esca at his side everyday through the darkest and happiest of the years. Life beyond Rome would not be easy, but he and Esca would have a small farm, a warm house, and more children. A family of hope, they would hold exalted rank within the tribe. In his old age, he would sit with a grandchild in his arms, living, breathing proof that the bloodlines could blend successfully. He would tell stories of Rome to curious village children, and play with kittens as the sun gently sank in the afternoon sky.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of want to go into the mixed-blood thing a little more. Maybe one day we will write a short sequel about Daye laying a couple of dud eggs before finally having a successful hatching and giving them a grandchild :)

**Author's Note:**

> Tuck verse is an alternative m-preg universe wherein men who have babies hatch them from eggs and then “tuck” the baby hatchlings into pouches on their abdomens. 
> 
> Interested in writing your own tuck verse? Check out the this Live Journal post outlining the tuck verse!
> 
> http://twowritehands.livejournal.com/20049.html
> 
> We've written an Arthur/Eames story in this verse and have a plenty of others planned for our other OTPs, so it you like it then keep an eye out!


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